Prequel to Dragonflight
by Lindstrom
Summary: Ten Turns before Dragonflight, F'lar is the junior bronze rider in F'lon's Wing, concerned only with winning a trophy in the Summer Games and getting the prettiest seamstress in Benden Weyr to pay attention to him. When tragedy strikes, F'lar faces a bitter future. Canon. Features F'lar, F'lon, F'nor, R'gul, L'tol, Manora, Jora, OCs and etc.
1. Chapter 1

**Pern and all of its wonderful dragons and humans belong to the estate of the late and beloved Anne McCaffrey. I merely borrow them.**

 **This story is consistent with the first several chapters of "Dragonflight." It is not consistent with the events in "The Masterharper of Pern." Just so you know what to expect.**

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

A trickle of flame leaked out of Mnementh's jaws, and F'lar put a steadying hand on his neck. "Just a few more seconds," he murmured under his breath, his gaze fixed on the ground below them, where Jizith's shadow was racing towards the boundary of the playing field. The sun was at zenith; Mnementh hovered, waiting for their turn to practice Threadrag flaming.

There! Jizith's shadow had crossed the marker line. F'lar's eyes turned upwards towards the blue dragon and his rider, V'van, F'lar's wingmate. After two more wingbeats, Jizith angled left, and then F'lar saw V'van throw the bundle of gray rags that flared open as it fell. Without F'lar prompting him, Mnementh compensated for the wind, gained altitude in one mighty sweep of his enormous bronze wings and opened his jaws. A gout of flame as long as F'lar was tall sprayed out and set the rags alight. Spinning from the hot heat of Mnementh's fire, the rags fell, F'lar already searching the skies for the next bundle.

Mnementh dove to flame it, and then F'lar directed him upwards towards the third and final bundle of rags. All three Threadrags incinerated, Mnementh burned off the rest of the firestone in his belly in a sustained blast of phosphine-scented fire. F'lar counted four seconds of flame, and then two more beyond that before the game claxon sounded. A margin of six seconds! That was good enough for his Wing's team, and maybe even good enough for a personal trophy in the Games.

"Well-flown," F'lar told his dragon.

 _I could fly and flame much longer than that_ , Mnementh replied.

"I know you could."

Mnementh glided to the ledge to take his place at the end of the line as G'toril and his brown Cheth got into position for their practice run. F'lar looked over to F'lon, his Weyrleader, Wingleader and sire, and was rewarded with F'lon's fist pump signaling that he'd done well. F'lar acknowledged the accolade with a nod and wiped the smile off his face. No sense grinning like a weyrling who'd won a miggsy game when he'd only done as well as expected.

F'lar removed his riding helmet and ran his hand through the black hair that was brushed back from his high forehead to fall to the collar of his wherhide riding jacket. The light spring breeze had chilled him when they had first arrived at the playing field in a shallow valley along the top of the Benden mountain range, but now it felt refreshing as it dried the sweat from his exertions. The winter snow had melted from the playing field – the signal to begin formal Games practice – but snow still clung to the peaks. Mnementh crouched down to watch the next pair take their turn at practice as F'lar loosened the riding straps.

G'toril was shortsighted, and Cheth was slow on the turns. The pair were still pursuing the third bundle of Threadrags down when the game claxon ended their time and they pulled back up in disappointment. F'lon signaled them up to the heights for practice while C'latan, the Wingsecond, sent the next pair out. They had only an hour before the sun moved past zenith and skewed the dragon shadows out of the boundaries of the playing field. Not a second could be wasted if they meant to simulate the conditions of the Games accurately.

F'nor and his brown dragon, Canth, landed next to them. F'lar barely glanced at them before turning back to watch his wingmates practice. F'nor was still a weyrling, much to his disgust, since Canth had hatched three years ago and was full-grown; F'nor was sixteen, and almost full-grown as well. But Nemorth mated and clutched only every fourth year, and the weyrlingmaster wouldn't release his ten weyrlings until their replacements had Impressed, which gave F'nor another year as a weyrling. Since weyrlings couldn't compete in the Games, that relegated him to spectator and assisting the competitors.

"Did you get thrown off the relay team?" F'nor asked.

That earned him a look of disgust. F'nor may be his half-brother, but that didn't allow insolent familiarity. F'lar declined to answer, even though the answer was that he was still on the relay team. F'lon might worry that Mnementh's size would cost them a few seconds of speed, but F'lar could reliably catch the baton mid-air. Green Yarath might be able to fly a second faster, but that wouldn't matter at all if H'pan dropped the baton and disqualified the whole team.

After enough time had passed to make it clear that F'lar wasn't responding to F'nor's rude question, F'lar asked, "Are you through with your weyrling duties already?"

"No, son of my father, my weyrling duties include delivering firestone to F'lon's Wing for Games practice," F'nor said with a sarcastic bite in his voice.

F'lar restrained a satisfied smile that he'd managed a return insult so deftly. But he allowed the excitement of practicing with more firestone to show. "We've been working on the Thread flaming maneuvers for the full wing. We're using a stacked formation instead of a traditional arrow formation. F'lon found the description in the Records. It was a way of fighting Thread if you'd lost some wingmen to injury and had to fly a closer pattern to compensate for the gaps in the wing. R'gul doesn't want to allow the variation in the Games, but F'lon's the Weyrleader so I bet we get to do it."

"Do you fly upper or lower level?" F'nor asked, their spat forgotten in the fascination with the Games and their mutual sire's new strategy.

"The junior bronze dragon flies upper level. The more experienced dragons take the lower level. The theory is that the experienced dragons could catch Thread the junior level misses. It's like being wingleader of a small wing, because I fly point with V'van and G'toril behind me, and H'pan closes the back of the formation, but they're all taking their positions from mine. F'lon said upper point dragon is crucial to keeping this formation clean and effective," F'lar said, and this time he didn't restrain the grin. He was bursting with pride that F'lon had given him this chance; he was so tired of being junior bronze in the wing, flying the back anchor position. But until Canth and his clutchmates were released from the weyrling barracks to become the new junior riders, F'lar would be considered a junior bronze rider.

F'nor's expression softened briefly with the look that F'lar knew meant a communication with his dragon, then F'nor untied a sack of firestone and dropped it next to F'lar. "I'm going to distribute firestone."

F'lon on bronze Simanith came flying back down to the ledge, followed by Cheth and G'toril. Canth backwinged to allow Simanith room to spiral down past him, then F'nor tossed a firestone sack which F'lon caught mid-air.

Just like we'd have to do if we were fighting Thread, F'lar thought. The weyrlings would resupply the fighting wings in mid-flight, and the rider would catch it and offer his dragon firestone before his flame ran out and Thread escaped to fall on Pern. F'lar knew Thread was viciously destructive, the scourge of life on Pern, and the bane of a dragonrider's existence, but it still sounded so thrilling and heroic when compared with flaming a bundle of rags.

Canth and F'nor settled back to the ledge to watch as F'lon signaled the wing aloft and then Simanith passed F'lon's order to chew firestone and take their positions. Mnementh hovered, turning his great bronze head to accept chunks of firestone from F'lar's hand. F'lar could feel the vibrations as the dragon's heavy jaws pulverized the rock, releasing a pungent phosphine odor that F'lar welcomed for the adventure it brought with it. Mnementh strained upward, wheeled, and held his position while the rest of the wing formed up behind and below them. F'lar checked the positions of the dragons behind him, motioning G'toril and Cheth to come in closer, then watched F'lon for the signal.

The entire wing synchronized their motions, almost to the wingbeat, and dove in the stylized choreography of the most difficult event in the Games. Wings were judged on synchronicity, style, flame production and staying within the playing field. F'lar looked below them; the dragon shadows were within the playing field boundaries, though they were skewing a bit west as the sun passed zenith. After two flaming passes, Mnementh easily took the turn that dropped them a level, and F'lar heard his rumble of correction before F'lar had to ask him to bespeak Cheth to tighten the turn. Mnementh released another gout of flame in concert with the rest of the wing, and an errant gust of wind eddied the heat back into F'lar's face. He put up an arm to protect his eyes and reassured Mnementh he was fine. The next turn threw him against the riding straps, and he hoped no one had seen his clumsiness – he should have anticipated that turn better.

Within another fifteen minutes, the maneuver had ended, with the entire wing landing on the playing field. F'lar glanced up to see Canth take wing and head back to the Weyr, F'nor pumping his arm in farewell. F'lar returned the salute and then joined his wingmates to listen to F'lon's evaluation of their practice.

~###~

F'lar's steps slowed as he entered the Lower Cavern for dinner that evening. The entrance into Lower Cavern from the Bowl went through the common room first, with its low tables and padded seats, then to the dining area with its rows of long tables. At the far end, the hearths formed the border between the living areas and the kitchen. The only seat left with the other junior riders in his wing was next to V'van, the blue rider. While F'lar appreciated V'van's admiration most days, his effusive compliments could become tiresome. F'lar didn't know what to say when V'van was only telling the truth about Mnementh's size and speed, and F'lar's skill as a rider, but he'd learned that if he agreed too often, it lent fuel to the accusation of arrogance that was frequently thrown at him by riders who were envious instead of admiring. H'pan, especially, thought F'lar ought to dissemble about Mnementh's abilities and his own talent. F'lar couldn't understand the value in telling half-truths though. Mnementh really was the best flyer, and he was the best rider among the junior dragonriders. It wasn't his fault H'pan and Yarath weren't that good, for all they were eight Turns senior. G'toril had the wit to admit his weakness as a rider without expecting F'lar to act like he had the same struggles. In fact, G'toril was even willing to accept advice, a fact that raised his standing in F'lar's opinion. There was no sense in refusing to learn just because you were taking advice from someone whose dragon had hatched in the same clutch.

F'lar decided not to sit with his wingmates. A group of weyrlings, with F'nor at the center, were at the next table, loudly engaged in a discussion of the bets they were already placing on the riders and wings, though the Games were still six sevendays away. Their table had also attracted the most female attention. The cooks' helpers were busy serving the meal, but the girls whose main duties didn't involve kitchen tasks usually seated themselves with the weyrlings and junior riders. The senior women in the Lower Caverns sat at their own table. They paired off with the dragonriders in the evenings, but didn't sit together for meals unless the relationship had stabilized into weyrmates.

F'lar kept his glance casual as he checked for Tirina. She sat with D'nol, Wingsecond in R'gul's Wing, at a table full of senior riders. Shards! She hadn't sat with him in a few days, and F'lar had hoped that meant the relationship was ending.

He took a plate and filled it with food from the serving table: baked fish and roast wherry, tubers, yellow-veins and redfruit, then balanced two slices of sweet bread over the top and would have taken a third but Manora, the assistant headwoman who was replenishing the vat of tubers, had already raised her eyebrows at the amount he'd managed to pile on his plate. They only had sliced meats once in a sevenday, so F'lar made sure he got enough to sustain him through the other six days of soups, stews and mashes.

T'bor was sitting with the senior riders, and his bronze Orth was clutchmates with Mnementh, so F'lar joined him. Conveniently, the seat was directly across from Tirina and within earshot of the senior riders.

"Good sun this week," T'bor greeted him.

F'lar nodded, his mouth already full of fish, and reached for the pitcher of _klah_ to fill his mug and wash down the mouthful. T'bor flew with S'lel's Wing, and the weather had been cloudy last week when it was their turn to use the playing field. Without the shadows to mark the beasts' positions, that week of practice had essentially been wasted for them. "I heard you're first position on your relay team."

"Orth is the fastest dragon in our wing, but I missed the baton two practices running, so S'lel put us first," T'bor admitted.

F'lar nodded and mixed the tubers into the yellow-veins before taking another bite. He didn't want to chat about the Games with T'bor. He wanted to hear what D'nol was talking about with the other senior riders and maybe talk to Tirina.

"Good evening to you," F'lar said to Tirina.

"Good evening. Torn anything lately?" Tirina replied.

"Not lately, no," F'lar said.

Tirina was one of the Weyr seamstresses. As a youngster, F'lar had discovered he could have Tirina's undivided attention if his clothing needed repair. His scheme had worked well until one day in his twelfth Turn, when Tirina had greeted him with a look of longsuffering and the comment, "Ah, yes, you again – the weyrling who can't keep his clothes in one piece for an entire sevenday." Mortified that he was gaining the wrong sort of attention, F'lar stopped snagging his seams on every available hook.

He had yet to attract the right sort of attention from Tirina. It didn't help that she was six Turns his senior and continued to twit him about his childhood foolishness whenever he tried to talk to her. And she was weyrmates with a senior bronze rider, with no reason to take a junior rider seriously. When he'd Impressed Mnementh seven Turns ago, all she'd done was congratulate him on not tearing his Impression tunic.

When she'd left the Weyr shortly after F'lar Impressed Mnementh for fostering at the Weaver Hall at High Reaches Hold to learn more of her craft, F'lar decided his youthful fascination with her was over. Unfortunately, when she returned from fostering a few Turns later, F'lar's resolutions fell apart after she'd done nothing more than walk from the Bowl to the Lower Caverns. She'd always been tall, but she'd returned from her Turns at the Weaver Hall having grown into her height with generous curves, a swing in her step, and the weaver skill to dress to best effect. Light brown hair fell over her shoulders and down her back, glinting bronze in the firelight. F'lar wasn't the only dragonrider to hope for her attention, but D'nol had won her. For now.

F'lar tried, and failed, to come up with a witty comment to draw her into conversation, and the opportunity was lost when D'nol leaned across to join the conversation with the senior riders.

"How can it be newfangled when he found the wing formation in the Records, R'gul? You can't have it both ways. The Records _are_ Tradition." D'nol sat back and took another bite, satisfied he'd made his point.

R'gul gave his Wingsecond a black look. "Those Records applied to a different era on Pern. I'm talking about the traditions of the Games, and _our_ traditions dictate a standard arrow formation for the full wing flame maneuvers."

"That's nowhere written," F'lon said.

F'lar perked up to hear his sire defend his new strategy for the Games.

"Doesn't need to be written if everyone knows it," R'gul replied.

"There is that," D'nol said, backing down from his opinion to agree with his Wingleader again. D'nol liked to act like he had his own opinions, but he never sustained a disagreement with R'gul.

"If it isn't written, then we just need to change what everyone knows," C'latan replied coolly. As F'lon's Wingsecond, he had no need to placate R'gul, and every incentive to support his own Wingleader. "Ten Turns from now, everyone will know that there are at least two formations that can be flown in the full wing flame maneuver event, and possibly a third."

"A third?" S'lel, a Wingleader who agreed with F'lon more often than he agreed with R'gul, joined the conversation. "What's the third?"

"Winding pass. The three formations are arrow formation, stacked arrow formation, and winding pass," F'lon supplied. "The winding pass formation was used at the height of a Pass, when Threadfall is thickest and a wing had to get in at least four vertical passes before Thread could reach the ground. It's got some tricky turns in it, but the diagrams are fascinating."

"I'd like to see those," S'lel said.

"At your convenience," F'lon replied.

"You going to try a new formation?" R'gul demanded with a snort of disgust. His heavy features suggested a strongly disciplined personality, but F'lar thought he was disciplined to be as inflexible as possible. There was nothing wrong with trying a new formation.

"I might," S'lel replied. "What do you think, L'tol?"

L'tol, S'lel's Wingsecond, paused a second and considered before answering. "I can speak for our wing when I say we'd welcome the challenge and rise to meet it."

"Well-said!" S'lel told him, and raised a mug of _klah_ in his direction.

L'tol acknowledged the compliment with a slight tip of his head and half a smile. L'tol was the only wingsecond who rode a brown dragon instead of a bronze. R'gul and V'sen had thrown a fit about confirming his rank, but with F'lon and S'lel both agreeing that L'tol's Larth could outfly any other bronze currently available for promotion, R'gul had conceded sullenly and V'sen had followed his lead. It had thrown the staid Weyr patterns into commotion to promote a brown rider into a position only ever assigned to bronze riders, but F'lon said it would keep the bronze riders on their toes to know they had even more competition for the coveted rank positions in a wing.

"Challenges keep both dragons and their riders from getting complacent and add opportunity to try out riders in new positions," F'lon said. "The top arrow in this formation is traditionally led by a junior bronze rider who has proven his riding ability, when the wingleader wants to test for possible leadership ability."

F'lar forgot to swallow. F'lon did not give compliments frequently, and he wondered if he was about to receive one, or to be criticized in front of the entire table.

R'gul snorted again. "How's that going?"

"He flies a tight wing," F'lon said.

F'lar swallowed, and nodded, aiming for the same understated acknowledgment to a compliment that L'tol had shown. He hoped Tirina realized just how rare and valuable a compliment from the Weyrleader was. F'lon showed no favoritism towards his blood sons; indeed, they had to work harder than the other riders simply to avoid censure.

"That sounded like its own challenge, didn't it, L'tol? Do you think our wing is up to mixing up a few rider positions and seeing what our junior bronze rider can do?" S'lel asked, with a pointed look at T'bor.

"Yes sir!" T'bor answered before L'tol could speak.

Smiles went up and down the table, and F'lar silently thanked the First Egg that he hadn't let his excitement get the best of him in such an embarrassing fashion. He fastened his eyes on his plate until someone kicked him under the table.

Tirina smiled and winked at him. F'lar allowed a full smile in return, grateful she'd noticed his triumph.

D'nol saw the exchange and scowled at F'lar. "Talk's easy. We'll see how you fly in the Games. That's where it matters."

"Then that's where I'll do the best you've ever seen," F'lar said.

"Arrogant!" D'nol said with a snort that sounded like R'gul.

"Confident," F'lar corrected him.

"Over-confidence can turn the best dragon into a wherry-flyer," D'nol said, getting up from the bench and motioning Tirina to come with him.

F'lar let the comment pass because it was obvious he'd won the exchange of words and D'nol was being churlish.

As they walked away together, D'nol's hand drifted to Tirina's hip. F'lar gave that hand a black look, then turned his attention back to the conversation between F'lon, S'lel and L'tol about the winding pass formation that S'lel wanted to try.

~###~

 _There, it itches there_ , Mnementh said when F'lar reached the right spot.

F'lar rubbed the itch with sand, then brushed it off and poured a handful of oil onto Mnementh's haunch and rubbed it in. Mnementh leaned into the motion with contentment, which about flattened F'lar.

"Heave over. Can't have you lying on me," F'lar said, shoving Mnementh back.

Mnementh rumbled and shifted.

F'lar loved this time of day, after dinner with the shadows lengthening by the Weyr's lake, dragons and riders informally spending a few moments together. They were across from the feeding grounds, but Mnementh had eaten yesterday. Today, he wanted only a bath and a scrub. Mnementh turned his head around to blow a snort at F'lar. Obligingly, F'lar shifted from scratching Mnementh's haunch to the dorsal ridge above his multi-faceted eye, the inner lids gradually closing as F'lar scratched the eye-ridge soothingly. The first lid dropped down over his glowing eye as Mnementh relaxed.

Simanith blew the sand on the ground up around F'lar as he landed and F'lon dismounted.

"He is well cared for," F'lon said, nodding towards Mnementh.

"He takes care of me as well," F'lar replied, leaving off Mnementh's eye ridge.

"As it should be. I want you to take the riders in your upper wing for practice tomorrow morning. Simanith tells me Mnementh had to bespeak Cheth multiple times about keeping position in the formation today. Run the maneuver without flame until G'toril and Cheth can stay in position," F'lon said.

"Yes, sir," F'lar replied, thinking that H'pan would be irritated to have his free hours pre-empted. But these were wingleader orders, not F'lar's orders, so he could be irritated all he wanted; he'd still have to comply.

F'lar gave Mnementh a final scratch and wiped his oily hand on a drying cloth when F'lon turned to walk with him towards the Lower Caverns where most of the weyr folk gathered in the evenings. "Do you think S'lel will try the winding pass formation?"

F'lon held up the package of Record hides that F'lar had not noticed he was holding. "We'll find out."

F'lar fully intended to stay with F'lon and listen to his conversation about Games strategy, but when they reached the Lower Caverns, F'lon put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him towards the tables and couches where the weyrlings had congregated with several girls and card games. "Go relax with your friends, F'lar. You've worked hard today."

"Yes, sir," F'lar said, swallowing his disappointment. He would rather keep working on the Games than play cards with the weyrlings.

Still, it was gratifying to have F'nor order T'sum and L'rad to move over for him, and then deal the hand new so he could join in. K'net, who had impressed the only bronze dragon in Nemorth's last clutch, was ostensibly the highest-ranking weyrling, but his quiet personality usually gave way before F'nor's energy. F'lar was still surprised that F'nor had Impressed a brown dragon instead of a bronze, but he knew enough to never say that out loud. K'net did well enough as a bronze rider; he had good sense even if he was too self-effacing.

Telli, Manora's fosterling, hovered on the edge of the group, not sure if a girl of twelve Turns would be welcomed; the other children were off in a corner with a game of sticks and miggsy. Several older girls, Sanra, Asha and Arita, were seated with the weyrlings, and enjoying the game immensely if the amount of giggling was any indication.

No one kept score, and T'sum and Asha were cheating, but so obviously that every play they made produced more laughter and exclamations of false shock from the others. Sanra and L'rad showed off their cards and made an exaggerated play that would have gotten them disqualified from a serious game. It was ridiculous, and beneath his dignity, but F'lar found himself chuckling the next time Asha pounced on the card T'sum discarded and played the trick.

F'lar relaxed enough that when Tirina entered the Lower Caverns, he waved and called her over without considering the risk of embarrassment if she turned him down to find D'nol. To his surprise, she came over.

"Move over and deal in Tirina," F'lar said.

"Do you have to sit by him, Tirina? Come over here," F'nor said.

Tirina ignored him and dropped onto the cushion next to F'lar where Sanra had shifted over. They were crowded now, which F'lar's appreciated. Her hip and leg were snugly against his.

"Shall we play a hand without cheating?" F'lar suggested, raising an eyebrow in T'sum's direction.

"Why?" T'sum asked, and Asha exploded in giggles, draping over his lap.

"I'll cheat with you, F'lar, if you're getting left out," Tirina offered.

F'lar watched F'nor try to keep it in, fail, and snorted out, "just don't tell D'nol," before he guffawed at Tirina's unintended double entendre.

"Ignore him. I'll cut his hair with firestone flame tomorrow," F'lar said to Tirina.

Tirina laughed at her mistake and F'lar's threat. "I didn't know you knew how to make a joke, F'lar."

"He doesn't," F'nor said. "He really is going to flame my head tomorrow." And he burst out into more laughter.

By this time, F'lar was fairly sure someone was hiding a wineskin under the table.

"Now, F'nor, I'm sure F'lar has a sense of humor somewhere," Tirina scolded the young brown rider.

F'lar wondered if she was teasing him or flirting with him.

"It wasn't issued with his dragonriding gear, so he really doesn't have one," F'nor said.

"That's not true. I heard him make a joke," and T'sum paused an extra second, "not more than two Turns ago."

L'rad went off into such hilarity that F'lar checked under the table. There was an empty wineskin on the floor. It wasn't much fun to be the only sober person at the table. Even K'net seemed well-flown tonight.

"Did F'lon order you to come over and have fun with us?" T'sum asked.

"Actually, he did," F'lar said.

That set them off again, even though it was the truth. F'lar was flying at the wrong altitude right now, and he knew it. Work, precision and dedication were where he was comfortable. Some evenings he avoided the Lower Caverns entirely, preferring to spend them with Mnementh, or in his weyr with a pile of Records from the glory days of Pern's past when dragonriders saved the world. He ought to be able to come up with something witty and friendly to join them, and he was at a loss, just like when he'd tried to talk to Tirina at dinner.

"All you can do is follow orders? Then I order you to laugh," Tirina said.

F'lar would have traded a dragon egg to be anywhere else right now. If only they'd given him time to get drunk with them, he might be managing this situation better. Because Tirina had asked, he forced a chuckle.

"Good effort," Tirina said, to the accompaniment of more hilarity from the weyrlings and their girls.

"I should check on Mnementh," F'lar said, getting up.

"Oh, unbend a little, we're just teasing," F'nor said.

F'lar didn't say all the things he wanted to say to F'nor right now, since he knew they'd only laugh at him.

"I'm going to find D'nol," Tirina said, getting up with him.

F'lar appreciated that she wasn't going to laugh at him, but wished she hadn't announced that particular errand.

She caught his hand before he got more than two steps away from the couch and squeezed it. "You're handsome when you smile. You should do it more often."

Then she dropped his hand and sauntered away towards the fire where the senior riders had gathered.

~###~

It was full dark when F'lar returned to the Lower Caverns on the way to the kitchens, holding a glow basket. He'd spent the rest of the evening with an old Record from the Red Star's last Pass. Jora, the Weyrwoman, was keeper of the Records, but from what he could tell, she never looked at the old ones. No one noticed if he took Records, or when he returned them. F'lon read old Records, so F'lar did too.

He was hungry. The duty cook had gone to bed, so he couldn't call down the service shaft in his weyr for food. He'd waited until he was sure the weyrlings would have gotten corralled by the weyrlingmaster and sent back to their barracks before he went in search of meatrolls and cheese.

There was a fire flickering low on the hearth at the dining end of the Lower Caverns. F'lar stopped when he realized two people were still there. They were seated across from each other at a table. He recognized Manora's profile. She was assistant headwoman at Benden Weyr, though she had been acting headwoman for Turns now, as Willa's joint disease confined her to the fireside as an advisor. Manora was kind, she knew where everything was, and not a problem in the Weyr escaped her gentle attention. She was also F'nor's blood mother. F'nor had gotten his easy way with people from his mother. F'lar often wondered what it was about a person that made them befriend everyone they met and win trust without even trying. Whatever it was, he knew he didn't have it, and some days, like this evening, he noticed his lack.

It wasn't until the man seated across from her brushed back the lock of hair that had fallen into his eyes that F'lar recognized his sire. They were only talking, not even holding hands, and yet their attitude was more intimate than F'lar had seen between some he knew were lovers. He would never ask, but he believed F'lon and Manora had not been lovers since Simanith flew Nemorth ten years ago and F'lon became Weyrleader after P'zal died of old age and illness. Jora was rider of Benden's only queen dragon, Nemorth, except queen dragons couldn't fly so Jora wasn't exactly a dragonrider. She was Weyrwoman though, and smitten with F'lon, though she was eighteen Turns his senior. After Simanith flew Nemorth, Jora was immediately possessive of F'lon, to the point of stirring up contention in the Weyr until he ended his relationship with Manora. F'lar had heard the story from F'nor, who had heard it from his foster mother, who thrashed him for repeating it, but not before every boy in the Weyr knew that F'lon loved Manora.

F'lon's first duty would be to his Weyrwoman and the Weyr, even if he still loved the assistant headwoman, F'lar observed. When the dragons were involved, love couldn't take precedence in relationships among the humans they'd Impressed.

F'lon's expression was entirely unguarded right now. F'lar had never seen him look tired and worried – F'lon was always confident and busy. Though he was too far away to hear the words, F'lar could tell F'lon was pouring out a steady stream of concern in a tone of self-doubt and confusion instead of the strong confidence F'lar assumed his father always felt. Manora listened. He'd seen that look on her face when F'nor talked to her as well – as if there was no one else in the world as important as the person she was listening to.

F'lar wondered if he would ever talk like that with Tirina. Somehow, it seemed more intimate than taking her back to his weyr for the night. He'd done that with girls he'd barely talked to at all, and who hadn't wanted his conversation either. But to have someone to talk to like that would be a whole new experience. F'lar stayed in the shadows, aware now of a need he hadn't known he had until he saw F'lon express it for him. He wanted a friend, a human friend, whom he trusted enough to admit that sometimes he didn't know what to do, and he worried about what people thought of him, and he didn't know the difference between being arrogant and being confident.

A little shaken, F'lar decided he wasn't hungry after all. He left quietly, returning to Mnementh who waited to take him back to his weyr for the night. He stopped to scratch Mnementh's eye ridges, needing the reassurance of his bronze dragon's love before he settled himself on Mnementh's neck for the brief flight up to his weyr.

* * *

Dragondex of characters:

Arita, teenage girl at Benden Weyr. OC

Ashi, teenage girl at Benden Weyr. OC

B'refli, rider of brown Joruth in S'lel's Wing.

C'gan, rider of blue Tagath. Harper and weyrlingmaster.

C'latan, Wingsecond rider of bronze Kogath in F'lon's Wing. OC

D'nol, Wingsecond rider of bronze Valenth in R'gul's Wing.

D'wer, rider of blue Trebeth in S'lel's Wing.

F'lar, junior bronze rider of Mnementh in F'lon's Wing.

F'lon, Weyrleader and Wingleader rider of bronze Simanith.

F'nor, weyrling rider of brown Canth

G'toril, junior brown rider of Cheth in F'lon's Wing. OC

H'pan, green rider of Yarath in F'lon's Wing. OC

Illian, son of Lord Raid of Benden Hold. OC

Jora, Weyrwoman of queen Nemorth.

K'net, weyrling rider of bronze Pianth

L'rad, weyrling rider. He's not an OC, but his dragon is never named or described.

L'tol, Wingsecond rider of brown Larth in S'lel's Wing. (In the first introduction of L'tol in _Dragonflight_ , Larth is identified as a green dragon. Every other mention of Larth says he's a brown dragon, so I went with that.)

Manora, assistant headwoman at Benden Weyr.

Raid, Lord Holder of Benden Hold.

R'gul, Wingleader rider of bronze Hath.

Sanra, teenage girl at Benden Weyr.

S'lan, bronze rider of Binth in R'gul's Wing.

S'lel, Wingleader rider of bronze Tuenth.

S'ril, weyrling rider of green Banath. OC

T'bor, junior bronze rider of Orth in S'lel's Wing.

T'gor, weyling rider of blue Relth.

Tirina, seamstress at Benden Weyr. OC

T'sum, weyrling rider of brown Munth.

Veron, son of Lord Raid of Benden Hold. OC

V'sen, Wingleader rider of bronze Moreth. OC

V'van, rider of blue Jizith in F'lon's Wing. OC


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

The next morning, when F'lon didn't come watch F'lar practice with the upper wing of junior riders, F'lar assumed that meant F'lon was confident he could handle the practice without help. But when C'latan led the mid-day practice because F'lon still hadn't come, F'lar began to wonder if something had happened. Without F'lon, they couldn't run the full wing flame maneuver, so C'latan was running the individual riders through flame practice, with a focus on the riders who were still slow or coming too close to the boundaries of the playing field as they pursued the Threadrag bundles. F'lar was relegated to spectator after C'latan told him others needed practice more than he did.

As the sun passed zenith and practice wound down, F'lar asked C'latan where F'lon was.

"A sweep rider reported that the dragon flag was flying at Keogh Hold. The Warder requested F'lon to visit Holder Rugin before he dies," C'latan answered. He was Turns older than F'lon, with a grizzled mustache and gray streaks in his brown hair. His face was lined and leathered by the sun. He'd been a wingleader himself until failing vigor forced him into a secondary position.

"Poor timing. This was our last day on the playing field," F'lar commented.

C'latan snorted. "The world's bigger than the Games, F'lar. F'lon is Weyrleader for all of Pern."

"Yes, sir," F'lar said, mortified that he'd gotten caught in such a trivial comment. Of course the Games weren't important outside the Weyr, but the Games were so much more challenging and interesting than flying sweep patrols over empty landscape and jumping _between_ to all the major Holds and empty Weyrs just to prove he remembered how to do it. "I'm sure it's important. I hope nothing's wrong."

"They wouldn't send for the Weyrleader if things were going well, now would they?" C'latan asked drily, and F'lar writhed internally with embarrassment again. "You're young yet. Priorities sift out a little better as you get older. F'lon will tell us what we need to know when he returns. Dismissed."

"Yes, sir," F'lar said, and got out of there as fast as he could.

F'lon returned that evening, and rumors were thick in the Weyr about why Holder Rugin of Keogh Hold had requested F'lon's presence. F'lar listened to them, glossing over names he didn't recognize, and wondering why Holder Rugin would be so concerned about a nephew inheriting Keogh Hold, especially since Keogh Hold was not one of the major Holds. If this Fax was blood-related, why did it matter that he was nephew and not son? Both of Holder Rugin's blood sons had died recently in unfortunate circumstances, leaving Fax as the only remaining blood heir, though he would have foresworn his inheritance right to Keogh when he married Lady Gemma of Crom years earlier. F'lar puzzled about why Fax would want to inherit Keogh Hold when his marriage to Lady Gemma positioned him as Lord Holder of Crom. Why would he accept a less significant Hold than Crom? Perhaps he had strong family loyalties.

F'lar gleaned these details from listening to the senior riders, without understanding all the family lines involved. There were too many Holds on Pern to do more than learn their names. The Holders' family relationships were too intricate to remember, especially since bloodlines mattered little within the Weyr.

After dinner, F'lon rose to speak. "I will separate the truth from the rumor about the news from Keogh Hold, if you'll kindly hold your tongues."

F'lar shifted uncomfortably. It was the senior dragonriders who were still talking, not the weyrlings, and he noticed the irritated looks that R'gul and V'sen aimed at F'lon. They didn't think the Weyrleader should be involved in Hold matters, and had opposed F'lon on other occasions as well. D'nol was seated on R'gul's other side, obviously supporting him. F'lar had only thought to be grateful it meant Tirina was sitting with the other weyrwomen instead of with D'nol, but now he realized that the three bronze riders formed a cadre of men opposed to whatever F'lon was about to say.

"Holder Rugin of Keogh Hold is dying. He names Fax his heir," F'lon began.

"Will he be confirmed by the Holder Conclave?" R'gul interrupted.

"Holder Rugin assumes he will be confirmed. There are no other of his blood still surviving," F'lon said.

"Not Weyr business," R'gul said with a shrug.

"Holder Rugin suspects that Fax is the reason there are no other men of his begetting that survive," F'lon went on, with a look of warning at R'gul. "No proof lays the death of Rugin's sons at Fax's feet, but there is evidence."

"Even with proof that Fax caused their deaths, who else but Fax could hold Keogh if all the other bloodkin are gone?" This time it was V'sen who interrupted F'lon.

"That is why he will be confirmed by the Conclave. But Fax does not intend to cede the Lordship of Crom that he inherited by marrying Lady Gemma. He intends to Hold both Crom and Keogh," F'lon said.

That caught the interest of everyone in the room. No Lord could hold more than one Hold.

"Holder Rugin also acquainted me with the news that minor Holds Riverbend and Balen have recently ceded their sovereignty to Crom. At the time, it was reported that the Holders voluntarily joined with Crom, but when Keogh's heirs began to die, Holder Rugin investigated further. He believes Fax conquered both minor Holds by infiltration and assassination," F'lon said.

The dragonriders and weyrwomen shifted uneasily in their seats and exchanged glances. One man holding four Holds was unthinkable.

"Further, Holder Rugin suspects that Fax has designs on Nabol Hold," F'lon said.

"Why does he involve the Weyr?" R'gul asked. "The Lord Holders should deal with Fax on their own terms. Let them call a Conclave."

"He informs the Weyr, as is his duty to his Weyrleader. The Weyr's responsibility to Pern invites the Weyr's involvement," F'lon said.

"The Weyr's responsibility to Pern does not require us to interfere in Holder matters. Would you have us mount dragons, go _between_ , and confront Fax?" R'gul demanded.

"Dragonriders don't fight Holders!" D'nol shouted out, and a rumble of approval rolled through the cavern.

"Crom has not tithed since Lord Fax married Lady Gemma. Tithing trains from Riverbend and Balen have not come since they ceded sovereignty to Crom. When Fax Holds at Keogh, those tithing trains will cease as well. Should he conquer Nabol, I leave you to discern the consequences to the Weyr. Fax plans to Hold the entire western half of the continent," F'lon shouted back against the dragonriders.

"There's no evidence of that! You overspeak, F'lon. Four Holds will content him," R'gul said, rising to his feet. R'gul was older than F'lon by only a few Turns, but heavier set, and when V'sen and D'nol rose to their feet as well, F'lon was left alone to face all of them.

Why didn't S'lel and C'latan stand with F'lon? F'lar wondered angrily. There were so few senior bronze riders and wingleaders at all, that to have three of them determined enough to speak out openly against their Weyrleader was enough to sway the balance of power against F'lon.

F'lon backed down. "I do not propose that dragonriders fight Holders. Holder Rugin was agitated enough about Fax's ambitions to bring them to my attention, and I bring them to yours. The decision about our response is not mine alone to make, but we do not make that decision yet. Tomorrow I will visit Benden Hold, Fort Hold and Ruatha Hold to see what they make of Fax's ambitions."

"You're stirring up trouble where no need exists," R'gul insisted. "If you go pestering them with questions, you'll have Pern in an uproar, and then they'll expect us to step in and fix it since you'll be the one causing the disquiet by your meddling. Leave well enough alone, F'lon. Holder matters are Holder matters."

"Fort and Ruatha are too strong to worry about a man like Fax. They'll contain him, and he'll spread his ambition no further than he has already," D'nol added.

"And if he takes Nabol?" F'lon countered.

"Then he takes Nabol, and may the First Egg grant him the luck he'll need to Hold it," D'nol said with a laugh.

The laugh spread as the tension broke and the dragonriders shook off the worry.

F'lon let the moment go, recognizing he'd lost. He seated himself and took the wineglass C'latan filled for him. But his customary look of confidence was gone, leaving behind only the tired worry that F'lar had seen last night.

~###~

The mood in the Lower Caverns that evening was subdued. Not even the weyrlings and their girls were carrying on as usual. It had upset the younger weyrfolk to witness a disagreement among the senior riders, though few of them understood Hold matters well enough to worry about the substance of the issue.

F'lar was pacing distractedly between groups of people, not willing to join a conversation or sit down. He'd gone to look at the map of Pern that hung on the wall of the Council Room, tracing the line of Holds that Fax held. Besides the ones they'd discussed at dinner, High Reaches Hold was close enough to Crom to be a worry. He wanted to ask F'lon about High Reaches Hold, but he wasn't bold enough to interrupt the tense discussion that had excluded all the junior riders.

"Tirina?" F'lar interrupted her before she could get more than a few steps into the Cavern. D'nol wouldn't be much company for her tonight anyway, engrossed as he was in the clutch of senior riders clustered back by the fire and occasionally shouting at each other. "You fostered at the Weaver's Hall at High Reaches Hold, didn't you? What was it like?"

"That was Turns ago, F'lar," Tirina said. She wore a blue dress that fell just below her knees and held a basket of mending. Her hair was in a partial braid that released the golden-brown locks just below her ears and spilled out over her shoulders and back.

F'lar motioned her to sit down and brushed back the forelock of black hair that kept falling into his eyes. "I've never lived outside the Weyr, never even been outside the Weyr for anything but patrols. Tell me."

"I didn't see a dragon for four Turns," Tirina said, threading a needle and beginning to work on the seam of a child's skirt that had come undone. "We worked at our craft, did our duties around the Hold, and never saw a dragon. Even the harpers didn't sing the dragon songs, other than the Naming Song that the children had to learn."

F'lar stared. Now that she said it, it was obvious that most of the inhabitants of Pern would rarely see a dragon, or hear the songs about dragons, or even remember why Pern had dragons. There was only one half-empty Weyr of dragons left.

Tirina spoke about her weaver craft, and the details of daily life, with an apologetic shrug for how mundane it sounded, but then she brightened. "But there were Gathers! We've never had a Gather at the Weyr because no one would come. But when the weather was good on a rest day, the Gather flag would fly and everyone would come – all the minor holders and crafters with their goods and their marks to spend. It seemed that everything could be bought at a Gather, F'lar, you've never seen such riches! The best the Holds produce don't come in on tithing trains, it's all sold at Gathers! And there would be singing by dozens of harpers, dancing until the moons set, and more food than I can even describe. We traveled to Gathers at Crom, and once all the way to Ruatha. I learned to ride a runnerbeast!"

"That sounds . . ."

"Fun? Yes, it was. I never realized how lonely the Weyr is until I lived at High Reaches Hold. Children fostered there from all over, and they sent their children to different Holds. All the fostering in the Weyr goes no further than the kitchen. The Hold has traders and holders and farmers and crafters. It was so different to come back here where there are only the same group of people and nothing to do but what we did the day before," Tirina said, and then she sighed. She finished stitching the skirt seam and began to attach a patch to a pair of cloth trousers.

"Do you not like it here?" F'lar had never considered that someone would prefer Hold life to weyr life.

"Oh no, I like it here. I came back, didn't I? And I haven't left again, although I could have. I suppose once you get used to weyr life, it does have its advantages," Tirina said.

"Like what?"

Tirina gave him an amused glance. "Dragonriders."

F'lar failed to come up with a witty reply and instead resorted to another boring one. "And patching clothes?" he said, with a nod to her work basket.

"This is just what needs doing. I like the embroidery though, and sewing dresses. We spend more time patching than sewing now; not much cloth or wherhide comes in on the tithing trains to make anything new. Not that we need it, with hardly anyone in the Weyr," Tirina said.

F'lar was so used to the Weyr that he hardly thought about the fact that more than half the dragon weyrs were empty. He wouldn't have his fine, big weyr if there were enough senior dragons to fill the best weyrs.

"You used to keep me busy," Tirina said. "I used to wonder if you'd ever be able to keep a full set of clothes in one piece."

The hours that had passed in conversation had been so congenial that F'lar told her the truth. "It was a way of getting your attention. You'll notice I never needed anything mended when any of the other seamstresses were available."

She stared at him for a second and then burst out laughing. "You devious little boy!"

F'lar grinned back at her, relieved that he'd finally said something witty enough to make her laugh, even if it was at his expense. "I'm not a little boy anymore."

"Really? What devious schemes do you have now for getting my attention?" Tirina looked at him sideways from under her lashes and crossed her ankles, fluffing out her skirt.

"Have you ever ridden a dragon?"

"C'gan and Tagath fetched me home from High Reaches."

"How many Turns ago was that? Come riding with me this next rest day. You'll need a wherhide jacket and riding belt. Trousers may work better than a skirt. I'll show you the snow on Benden's peaks and we'll go see Whiterock Waterfall. I won't take you _between_ unless you want."

"Do you mean it?" Tirina asked, suddenly serious.

"Has D'nol never taken you riding?"

Tirina shrugged. F'lar assumed that meant she'd only ridden from the Bowl floor up to his weyr.

"Mid-morning, this rest day. Will you come?"

"Shards, F'lar, it would be easier to mend your trousers!" Tirina exclaimed.

"I'd let you tear them if you want."

Tirina laughed out loud. "I'll have to tell T'sum you made a joke. He'll be so pleased it only took you two Turns to come up with one."

"Tirina!"

"All right, I'll come. You really are devious." Tirina kept smiling at him, even as she finished the patch and began putting her sewing away.

"You're leaving already?" F'lar asked.

"I'm tired tonight. It was good to talk to you, though. No one has ever asked me about living at High Reaches before. Good night, F'lar."

She gave him another smile before she walked back to the tunnel that led to the living quarters for the weyrwomen and children in the Lower Caverns. F'lar enjoyed watching her skirt swinging so much that it took him a few seconds to realize that by going to bed early, she'd effectively avoided D'nol. In fact, it seemed she'd wanted him to know that she wasn't going to D'nol's weyr tonight. F'lar drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair, smiling.

~###~

"F'lar! A word with you."

"Yes, sir," F'lar said, stopping at the entrance to the Bowl. F'lon took him by the arm and led him out of earshot of those still in the Lower Caverns. The Bowl floor was full of dragons, with more dragons lounging on the surrounding ledges. Mnementh was perched on the Star Stones, watching the moons rise.

"I want you to accompany me tomorrow when I visit Benden Hold," F'lon said.

"Yes, sir!"

F'lon gave him a ghost of a smile. "The Hold Lords don't know any dragonrider besides me anymore. We may as well prove I'm not the only one left."

F'lon looked like he had more to say, so F'lar only said, "yes, sir," again and waited.

F'lon finally said it. "None of the other bronze riders care to maintain the connections with the Holders. R'gul is shortsighted if he thinks he can ignore the rest of Pern. I want you in a leadership position someday, and the Weyr will need a leader who can speak to the Lord Holders."

"I fully intend to earn the rank of wingleader as soon as I can, sir," F'lar said.

"Don't stop there, son. I'll see you after breakfast. Dress formal."

And F'lon was gone, calling for Simanith with F'lar staring after him. The acknowledgment of their blood relationship was sweeter for being so rare, and F'lon had told him not to halt his ambitions at wingleader. There was only one position in the Weyr higher than wingleader, and that was Weyrleader.

* * *

 **Reviews are appreciated!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

F'lar dressed in wherhide trousers and his best tunic the next morning, the one with the bronze thread decorating the hems. There was a grease spot at the waist where he'd spilled during the feast for the Turnover celebration, but at least the fabric wasn't frayed. Then he looked more closely at the cuffs and noticed the frayed edges had been skillfully stitched. Tirina's comment about how new cloth wasn't coming into the Weyr anymore made him conscious that he'd gotten this tunic from the stores cavern, and it wasn't new. But it was the best he had, and the mending wouldn't be noticeable. Unfortunately, his wherhide riding jacket would crumple the cloth, but there was nothing to be done about that.

He brushed his boots until he felt like the scuffed toes weren't noticeable. His hair was still damp from bathing, and he combed it straight back from his high forehead, the way F'lon wore his. He owed his high-bridged nose and deep set eyes to his sire as well, though F'lon's eyes were dark brown. F'lar's eyes were a light enough brown to be called amber, and F'lon had told him once that his blood mother had eyes that color. F'lar couldn't remember her.

He carried his riding jacket, rather than crush the tunic before breakfast, and rode Mnementh down to the Bowl. F'lar draped his riding jacket over a padded chair on his way to the breakfast hearth and the porridge kettle. He dished himself a bowl of porridge and sweeting, adding a roll from the warming oven. There was redfruit and _klah_ on the table. F'lar was up earlier than usual today, and the tables were nearly deserted. With his back to the entrance, F'lar didn't see F'lon arrive until he'd set his breakfast down next to him, also wearing the tunic that F'lar had last seen at Turnover. F'lar was relieved he'd correctly interpreted his sire's instructions on what to wear.

"Has Mnementh eaten recently?" F'lon asked.

"Day before yesterday," F'lar said.

"Good." F'lon took several bites, and then gave F'lar a conspiratorial smile. "Wouldn't do to panic the Holders with the sight of a dragon feeding."

F'lar had been watching dragons crush and tear herdbeasts to death since he was old enough to walk to the Weyr's lake without his foster mother snatching him back, but he supposed Holders would be shocked at the bloody, violent activity.

They made small talk about the Games through the rest of breakfast, then deposited their dishes in the bin. F'lar scooped up his riding jacket on the way out of the Caverns and called for Mnementh.

"Come, we need to see Jora before we go," F'lon said, striding across the Bowl floor towards the Weyrwoman's quarters opposite, pulling on his riding jacket. The small carved bronze dragon on his shoulder piece marked his Weyrleader rank.

The Weyrwoman's weyr was next to the Records Room and the Council Room, but F'lar had never been in the Weyrwoman's actual weyr and couldn't fathom why F'lon had invited him along. He stayed half a step behind F'lon as they went up the stairs and passed the stone hollow where Nemorth lay asleep. F'lar surreptitiously stared. Nemorth emerged only to visit the Feeding Grounds, but he suspected she ate when the other dragons were gone and that's why the riders saw her so rarely. F'lar had not yet been born when Nemorth hatched, and he had seen her so infrequently that she seemed more legend than reality. Queens were supposed to be the biggest dragons, and Nemorth was longer than Mnementh, her haunches and withers thick with extra flesh. It didn't seem to be a healthy size, and F'lar wondered if all queen dragons were shaped like that.

F'lon called out a warning and went through the door hanging into Jora's sleeping chamber. F'lar politely remained outside until F'lon called him in. He entered, but stayed as close to the door hanging as he could, still trying to be inconspicuous about staring. The weyr was a cluttered mess, with food trays and crumpled clothing left where they'd been used. Several of the glows were dim enough to need replacing. F'lar wondered why there were no drudges assigned to clean Jora's weyr. He didn't think Manora was the sort to stoop to petty revenge on the Weyrwoman, even if Jora had ended her relationship as F'lon's weyrmate.

"Good morning, Jora. Have you decided to accompany me to Benden Hold today?" F'lon asked.

Jora pushed away the bed furs and sat on the edge of the bed. F'lar had heard that she had been pretty when Searched, and he could still see the remnants of beauty in her large blue eyes and the fine bone structure through her nose and cheeks, though fat hung from her chin and thickened her neck. Her long, blonde hair was streaked with gray and badly in need of washing. Even from across the weyr, F'lar could smell that Jora needed a bath. His glance flicked towards the weyr's other door curtain, which surely led to a bathing chamber. Only thirty minutes of effort could make so much difference in both this weyr and in the woman who lived here.

"I haven't had breakfast yet, and I believe I'm getting a headache," Jora said. Her voice had a whiney tone to it that begged F'lon's pity for her sad state.

F'lar gave up looking around and stared straight ahead at a wall hanging depicting a queen dragon perched on a mountain ledge surrounded by bronze dragons.

"I won't impose further on your time, then," F'lon said. "I wanted to present to you F'lar, junior bronze rider in my wing. I anticipated your difficulties and arranged for him to accompany me today."

"My duty to you, Weyrwoman," F'lar said with a deep bow. Dirty or not, she was still his Weyrwoman.

"This is the rider you make so much of?" Jora heaved herself off the bed and came towards them, peering at him in the dim light of the expiring glows. She snorted when she got close enough to see him properly. "He's your get, isn't he? Manora's whelp?"

F'lar stiffened.

"His blood mother is Sholara. She returned to Lemos Hold many Turns ago," F'lon corrected her.

Jora waved a dismissive hand. "You always did prefer dark-haired women. What do I care? Take him with you. Do whatever you want; you will anyway. Don't let me waste any more of your precious time by wishing you'd visit me once in a while. I'm only your weyrmate and Benden's Weyrwoman. Nothing special. None of you care about me and sometimes I get sick of you pretending you do, just so Simanith can fly Nemorth and you can be Weyrleader. Don't think I don't know that's all you've ever wanted from me. You wouldn't even look at me twice until P'zal died and you decided you wanted to be Weyrleader."

F'lar stood there in an agony of embarrassment on behalf of his sire who had to stand there and let this slovenly woman upbraid him. Anyone would be repelled by her, not just F'lon, and F'lar wanted to slap her face to stop the whining self-pity that blamed F'lon for the situation she'd created herself. At last, F'lon jerked his head towards the door hanging, dismissing F'lar. F'lar managed one more short bow which didn't interrupt Jora's harangue and dashed out.

 _Simanith says we are to wait_ , Mnementh told him as F'lar rushed back out to the Bowl to lean against Mnementh's neck.

 _How can he stand it?_ F'lar asked rhetorically.

There was a brief pause, then Mnementh replied, _Simanith says it would be worse for the Weyr if he couldn't stand it_.

F'lar jerked upright in shock that Mnementh had asked Simanith such a question; his impertinence would surely be relayed to F'lon.

F'lon was on his way across the Bowl to where his dragon waited, fastening the chin strap on his riding helmet. Simanith would have told him what F'lar had asked, and F'lar waited for a rebuke or a blow to punish him for questioning the Weyrleader on such a personal matter.

"Get your riding things on, F'lar," F'lon said as he reached him.

F'lar scrambled into his riding jacket, belt and helmet.

"Jora." F'lon stopped and scratched Simanith's eye ridges for a minute. "I wanted you to see. It won't make sense to you now, but you needed to see. When we Search for the next Weyrwoman after Nemorth lays a queen egg, we must find a strong one who can lead the Weyr instead of hide from it. Mount up and let's go."

Relieved to have escaped punishment, F'lar tucked his Weyrleader's words away to think about later. He settled himself between Mnementh's neck ridges and fastened the riding straps while Mnementh gathered his strength for the leap upward. Mnementh preferred to fall into flight from his weyr ledge; an upwards launch took effort.

 _The drawback to being the biggest bronze at Benden_ , F'lar chided him.

Mnementh crouched and leaped upward, his enormous wings beating the air for altitude as he and Simanith flew up to the Rim. Simanith relayed the coordinates to Benden Hold as they cleared the ridge of the cave-pocked cone of the extinct volcano that housed Benden Weyr, giving him the pattern of the firepits along the heights and the stone windows of the main Hold. F'lar caught the picture in his mind and focused on it to guide them as Mnementh went _between_. Not even wherhide could keep out the bitter cold of _between_ , the utter lack of light, sound and sensation that still unnerved F'lar though he'd been a dragonrider for several Turns now.

They broke out of _between_ into the brisk spring air above Benden Hold, and a claxon sounded in the Hold at the sight of them. Mnementh followed Simanith as they spiraled down into the forecourt, sending all its occupants running madly for the Hold itself or out into the road and surrounding field. Mnementh landed lightly to Simanith's left, and F'lar dismounted. Mnementh sprang upward to follow Simanith to a ledge above the Hold as F'lar closed the gap with F'lon and the two of them strode towards the Lord Holder who had exited the Hold to meet them, flanked by two striplings who were a few Turns junior to F'lar.

Lord Raid of Benden Hold was a wiry man of middle height with a blunt chin and a face set permanently in a scowl. His blue tunic was embroidered with black and gold and his cloth trousers were black, blousing out over the tops of wherhide boots. The lads who followed him were dressed just as luxuriously, though the embroidery was less elaborate on their tunics. The one on the left had jewels on his belt. F'lar checked the hilt of his belt knife and saw jewels there as well. He wondered if F'lon had warned them of their visit, so they would also be dressed in their best finery.

"Weyrleader," Lord Raid greeted F'lon with a nod.

"Lord Raid. I was summoned by Holder Rugin yesterday. I have come about the succession in Keogh Hold," F'lon said.

Raid's eyes slid past F'lon to F'lar and he raised an eyebrow.

"I am accompanied by bronze rider F'lar, who flies in my wing," F'lon said.

Raid's eyes flicked back and forth between their faces and he grunted. "You've already met these two sons of mine, Weyrleader," he indicated the two lads with him. "Illian, Veron, show F'lar around the Hold while I talk with his father about Keogh Hold. We'll have the noon meal together in my private dining room."

Judging by their expressions, Illian and Veron were as disappointed about being excluded from this meeting as F'lar was, though they didn't murmur any objection.

"Come, bronze rider, we'll start with the beasthold," Illian said politely enough.

F'lar nodded, though he had no idea why he would want to see the beasthold, or anything else in the Hold. He fell into step next to Illian, whom he judged to be the same age as F'nor, and Veron scurried to keep up with them.

~###~

Several hours later, F'lar acknowledged the formal farewell from Lord Raid with a salute. The leavetaking from Illian and Veron was just as formal. Though they'd spent hours together, the three of them had not sown any seeds of friendship. The veiled contempt from Illian found its focus in a thousand observations about the industry and self-reliance of Benden Hold, in contrast to the Weyr, which couldn't survive without the tithe. F'lar had been raised to know that riding a dragon was the finest occupation on Pern, but these Holders boasted of their beastholds, farmholds, crafts, kitchens, looms, forges, tannery, and all the myriad other skills they'd presented to F'lar that day. Veron kept pretending to shock every time Illian's pointed questions forced F'lar to admit to another skill he didn't have. Why should he know how to flay a herdbeast and tan the skin? Or graft branches in an orchard? Or repair a loom? Or breed and ride runnerbeasts? He knew how to mend his riding harness, but that hadn't impressed the Holder boys once they learned he couldn't stitch a saddle. Mnementh didn't wear a saddle like a runnerbeast!

By the time they'd joined their fathers for the noonday meal, F'lar had been incensed, rather than pleased, at the quality of food on the table. This was no feast day for them; they ate like this regularly. He suspected the clothes they wore were not the best finery they owned either. He was ashamed of the Weyr's poverty and his own ignorance, and angry that he was made to feel ashamed. Benden Weyr should be the grandest, most important place on Pern, not a beggar with its hand out, hoping the Holds would do their duty by the tithe.

For it was clear to F'lar that Lord Raid tithed to the Weyr out of duty, and not out of respect to the Weyr or any personal warmth towards its Weyrleader. F'lon's conversation with Lord Raid at the luncheon had been as strained as their sons', not even relieved by the presence of Raid's Lady. F'lar knew without asking that F'lon was not pleased with the outcome of his conversation with Lord Raid.

Simanith and Mnementh glided into the forecourt, both dragons arching their pinions to avoid a gusty downsweep as their claws touched the flagstones. F'lar wished they'd knocked the Holders askew with the wind of their landing, and he was astride Mnementh's neck ridges before Mnementh had even furled his wings. Mnementh waited for F'lon and Simanith, and then his powerful hindquarters sprang upwards, launching them into the air, and F'lar couldn't help a downward glance, hoping to catch the expression on Illian's face. He was rewarded – Illian's mouth hung open in amazement. F'lar let that thought warm him through the cold of _between_.

It wasn't until they came out of _between_ that F'lar wondered why Simanith had directed them to the familiar Finger and Eye Rock on Benden Peak, above the Weyr, rather than to Fort Hold or Ruatha Hold. Mnementh banked into a glide and followed Simanith over the vast cavern of the Hatching Ground and Bowl to F'lon's weyr ledge, backwinging once to cut his forward momentum and land on the ledge that was overcrowded with two immense bronze beasts in the space meant for one. Simanith ducked into the tall corridor, leaving the outer ledge for Mnementh, and F'lar wondered if he presumed too much to follow F'lon to his weyr ledge.

"Will we visit Fort Hold tomorrow?" F'lar asked, mostly to pull F'lon out of the reverie that gave his features that same tired and defeated look that F'lar had seen two nights ago.

"No. The Lord Holders do not wish the assistance of the Weyr in the matter of Lord Fax. We may be kept informed if it is convenient for them," F'lon said.

F'lar's mouth tightened at this insult to the Weyr and Weyrleader.

"Shards, lad," F'lon said, half under his breath, then jerked his head down the glowlit stone corridor. "Come. I would show you."

Mnementh settled comfortably onto the stone ledge as F'lon and F'lar walked past the sanded hollow where Simanith stretched out, F'lon thumping his dragon's withers affectionately as they passed. F'lon brushed aside the door curtain into his sleeping chamber, and waved F'lar in the direction of a table near the entry, laden with Records.

"You're familiar with the extent of an Interval between Passes," F'lon said.

It wasn't a question, but F'lar answered anyway. "When the Red Star approaches Pern, it rains Thread for approximately fifty Turns. During the two hundred Turns between passes of the Red Star, there are no Threads and that's an Interval."

"Except for this Interval. F'lar, did the weyrlingmaster teach you that Long Intervals have disrupted that schedule?"

"No, sir. He," and F'lar faded out, not remembering what the weyrlingmaster had said. "Everyone knows it's been more than two hundred Turns since the last time the Red Star passed close enough to send Thread." It wasn't an Interval anymore, because those were only two hundred Turns. But if it wasn't an Interval, then what was it?

"Look," and F'lon pushed two different Records towards F'lar, who pulled out a stool and seated himself. "Here and here. They've recorded two other times that two hundred Turn Intervals elapsed, but no Threads fell. But both times, Thread came at the next Pass. There have been two Intervals of four hundred Turns, F'lar. It's in these decaying Records. An Interval of four hundred Turns – do you see it's happened before?"

"Yes, sir?"

"F'lar, do you know how many Turns it's been since the Red Star dropped Thread on Pern? Three hundred and eighty-six." F'lon looked at F'lar intently, willing him to understand something without being told. F'lar looked at the Record, its hide stained with age and oils, the stilted lettering barely legible, recording the passage of Turns and the threat of Threads.

Suddenly, F'lar did understand. Mnementh bugled on the ledge as F'lar's heart gave a flop in his chest. "Thread's coming?"

"Thread's coming," F'lon confirmed. "We're nearing the end of a Long Interval. We are due for another Pass and Pern isn't ready!" F'lon pounded his fist into his hand.

Thread! F'lar knew from the weyrlingmaster and harper about Thread, that deadly rain of silver spores spiraling across space from the Red Star to Pern's green and living planet. Thread must be charred to ash in the sky by flaming dragons, for if a single length of it touched the ground, it burrowed, multiplied, and ate every living thing in its path. Even one Thread burrow could destroy an entire field of crops. One Thread on a runnerbeast could kill it. A man could survive minor Threadscore, but would carry the scars the rest of his life. Defending Pern from Thread was the purpose and meaning of a dragonrider's existence.

"P'zal was an adequate Weyrleader, but he believed the same thing all Pern believes – that the Threads are gone for good. The Weyrleader leads the fighting dragons in Threadfall, but during an Interval, he's the one to keep the Thread-fighting tactics alive, to keep dragons and riders aware of their purpose and practicing the skills we can't afford to lose, not if we're going to save Pern. P'zal didn't think Thread would ever come back," F'lon said.

"The Games," F'lar said. "That's why you're introducing new tactics and events into the Games every Turn. They're Thread-fighting tactics, aren't they?"

"Good lad! I knew you'd figure it out. We have to know more than just an arrow formation if we're going to fight Thread. The relay races are practice for catching firestone sacks mid-air. Being able to wink in and out of _between_ during a wingtip turn is a way to dodge Thread. By next Spring Games, I want a full-Weyr event where every wing participates in a layered pass, the way we'd have to do to fight Thread over Nerat's rainforest when not even a single Thread can escape. That will have to a collaborative event, not competitive, perhaps as the opening event to convey the spirit of the Games. Everything in the Games should be developing our fighting abilities, not just showing off. Thread's coming, F'lar, and Pern isn't ready!"

"What do you want me to do to ready the Weyr?" F'lar asked.

F'lon laughed, but it was a confident and companionable laugh. "I need three dozen of you, F'lar." And then the confidence disappeared and he sighed. "What I need is a strong Weyrwoman who shares my vision. It's the Weyrwoman's duty to populate the Weyr, coordinate the tithes, and keep the peace in the Lower Caverns. The dragons will obey a queen, and we don't have a queen who is worth obeying. You will keep that to yourself, F'lar. I've enough difficulties with Jora without any criticism reaching her ears, not that she's aware of anything that goes on in the Weyr. I can ready the men, but it's the queen dragon's responsibility to populate the Weyr with dragons. I can't train dragonriders unless we have more dragons. Neither one of us can help Nemorth there, not with Jora letting her gorge before a mating flight." F'lon brushed back the forelock of hair that fell into his face.

F'lar's fingers itched to open those Records and start reading. He was suddenly aware of all the things he didn't know about fighting Threads, breeding dragons and leading a Weyr.

"It doesn't help that not another rider in this Weyr believes Thread will ever return," F'lon said, with another irritated brush at the hair that kept falling into his eyes.

"I believe you, sir," F'lar said.

"Well, that's a start anyway," F'lon said with a wry smile. "Now there's two of us."

F'lar returned the smile as F'lon slapped him on the back and squeezed his shoulder.

~###~

After dinner that night, F'lar lingered at the entrance to the kitchen with his bowl and utensils, wanting a chance to talk to Manora. One of the kitchen drudges took his dishes from him, and he asked for Manora. He could have approached her while she sat at table with the other women, but he was self-conscious after his visit to Benden Hold and wanted to ask her privately.

"Yes, F'lar?" Manora's brown hair was bound back into a bun, but a few wisps escaped to curl around her face. Her wide-spaced brown eyes were exactly like F'nor's, including the thick lashes. Her overtunic was stained and frayed. F'lar might not have noticed the state of her clothes before today, but it occurred to him that the women of the Lower Caverns would feel the pinch of the Weyr's poverty before the dragonriders would.

"I was at Benden Hold today."

"So I heard."

F'lar nodded. F'lon would have told Manora, though he'd made no general announcement of their failed errand at dinner. There had been an air of smug satisfaction about R'gul and D'nol and their supporters, but no open disagreements tonight. "Lord Raid's sons showed me around the Hold and crafthalls, all the things they do, with the beastholds and tannery and weaving and so forth. I didn't know what to tell them about what the Weyr could do. Besides fly dragons, I mean."

"Come, then, I'll show you."

F'lar hadn't thought to interrupt her evening, but Manora gave no sign of irritation or haste as she toured him through the kitchens with its vast cauldrons and endless shelves of dried, pickled and bottled preserves, the cold room hung with meat, and the racks of cooking implements. He hadn't been this far into the kitchens since he was a child. The healer cavern, adjacent to the kitchens, was just as well-supplied with herbs and medicines they harvested and preserved themselves, from what Manora said. She knew quite a bit about healing, and the Weyr was well-stocked with aconite, sweatroot, thymus, a dozen other herbs, pots and pots of numbweed and jars of the astringent redwort cleanser. F'lar realized that he had no reason to be ashamed of the Weyr's ability to care for its own. Though they depended on the tithe trains for the goods they couldn't produce, they were frugal and resourceful with what they had.

After some time, Manora led him out of the healer cavern and kitchens and asked, "Would you like to see the stores tonight? Or go back through the living suites? Though there isn't much there but children and bed furs. You could talk to our beastherder about the feeding grounds and lake – I'm afraid I don't know enough to explain all of those activities."

"I've taken enough of your time tonight. I would like to see the stores another time, at your convenience." F'lar couldn't help but think how much different the Weyr would be if Manora were Weyrwoman instead of assistant headwoman.

"Soon enough then, bronze rider."

He nodded and thanked her again, thinking that she'd treated him the way she treated F'lon – as if there was nothing she'd rather be doing than showing him around the kitchens and healer caverns, though he knew she had many tasks awaiting her, or perhaps a welcome chance to relax.

F'lar had planned to spend the rest of the evening studying the Records that F'lon had given him, but when Tirina waved him over to a couch, he sat down by her instead. Quickly, they were engaged in a conversation about his visit to Benden Hold. The weyrlings flocked around to listen – the entire Weyr knew he'd gone with F'lon that morning, and the hours passed pleasantly as F'lar recounted everything he'd seen, with Tirina adding in her own experiences at High Reaches Hold. The weyrlings weren't bad company when they weren't drunk, F'lar decided. Having them listen attentively to him was much better than being the focus of their drunken teasing.

At some point, Tirina touched his arm to make a point, and then it was the most natural thing in the world to keep hold of her hand as they talked. F'lar was thinking that this evening made up for this morning when D'nol stopped by their couch.

"Let's go, Tirina."

"Is it that late already?" Tirina asked, unthreading her fingers from F'lar's.

She didn't even glance at F'lar as she got up to leave with D'nol. F'lar turned back to answer L'rad's question about the tannery, as if it didn't matter that D'nol had taken Tirina back to his weyr.

A few minutes later, Tirina reappeared in the Lower Caverns. She avoided their group as she picked her way past the children and other weyr folk sprawled out relaxing in front of the fire, heading towards the living suites. She kept yawning and stretching in the most obvious way. F'lar flicked a glance towards the entry, where D'nol was watching her go back to her own room. He stayed there, watching, until she'd disappeared from sight, then gave F'lar a hard look before he called his dragon and headed up to his weyr alone.

Yes, this evening definitely made up for this morning.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Given his competitive nature, F'lar had always worked hard at the Games, but now that he knew the real purpose behind the Games, he worked even harder, chivvying his wingmates along until H'pan got irritated with him. It wasn't that hard to irritate H'pan though. The important thing was to not irritate C'latan, because then he might end up assigned to patrol Igen when their turn for the playing field ended and they went back to regular patrols and assignments.

While F'lar was sad to see their sevenday on the playing field come to an end, he was looking forward to taking Tirina flying this rest day. Mnementh wanted to swim, and F'lar stood on the shore of the Weyr's lake, fretting that Mnementh wouldn't get out in time to dry off. But the big dragon spent only a few minutes diving and snorting in the shallow lake before coming to shore to be rubbed and scrubbed. Mnementh picked up on F'lar's excitement and nudged him affectionately, making F'lar stagger to keep his feet.

"He really is the biggest bronze dragon in the Weyr, isn't he?" Tirina said as she approached.

F'lar turned around and laid a possessive arm on Mnementh's neck. "He is."

"You must have fed him well when he was a hatchling."

"That, and he was the biggest hatchling. Mnementh cracked shell as the best in the Weyr."

Tirina gave him that amused look that made F'lar wonder if she was laughing at him or with him. "I can't understand why everyone thinks you're so arrogant."

"Me neither," F'lar said, resisting that sinking feeling that he'd said the wrong thing. What was he supposed to do? Tell lies or downplay Mnementh's superiority? He had a perfect right to say that Mnementh was the biggest hatchling in his clutch because it was true. Orth was the only other bronze in that clutch, and he'd been the smaller of the two dragons.

He held her gaze until she dropped that amused look and shook out the wherhide jacket she'd draped over her arm and put it on. She was wearing a skirt instead of the trousers he'd recommended, but the skirt was full enough she could still sit astride.

"I'd rather sit behind you," Tirina said when he tried to seat her first.

"You won't be able to see as well with my shoulder in the way."

"I don't want to see that well, F'lar! We're going to be far enough above the ground that I don't need to see that well."

"Oh." He hadn't thought she'd be nervous.

With the riding straps fastened and Tirina holding onto him from behind, F'lar asked Mnementh to take them flying.

 _Through the passes to the waterfall?_

 _Yes, but fly straight._ F'lar replied. No one really liked going _between_ , and F'lar didn't want to unnerve Tirina further.

Mnementh behaved himself, flying staidly along, without any of the wild acrobatics the two of them enjoyed. There was a slot canyon behind the playing field, or really just upthrust boulders that could be treated as a slot canyon if one wanted to find out if a dragon could fly nearly sideways, which Mnementh could. This time, he flew over it, with only one regretful downward glance. There was no way to avoid the adventurous air currents around the mountain tops though, and an updraft caught Mnementh's outstretched wings, lifting him effortlessly and giving that split-second falling sensation to his riders. Tirina shrieked, then smothered the sound against F'lar's back.

"It's just the way the wind catches his wings, Tirina," he shouted back, most of his words whipped away in the wind of their flight.

"Does he have to go so fast?" Tirina shouted back, nearly in his ear.

"This is slow!"

Tirina put her forehead against his shoulder and hung on tighter. Her arms were wrapped so tightly around him that it felt like she was going to pinch him in two. F'lar abandoned the idea of stealing a few kisses while they were airborne and encouraged Mnementh to keep their flight as level as possible.

Mnementh banked into a long glide. F'lar compensated by shifting his weight, but Tirina scrambled a bit before finding out how to lean into the glide. Below them, the magnificent peaks of the Benden Mountains marched along, still covered in snow and sparkling in the bright spring sun. Spring's green blanket was spreading up from the foothills towards the stubborn snowbanks, touching even the exposed rock with a green patina of moss.

F'lar heard Whiterock Waterfall before he saw it. Upper Benden River flowed around the peaks, gathering spring runoff on its way down into the valleys and out to the plains. This early in the spring, the river still ran low. By high summer, it would be full as the sun burned off the winter snows. Here, in Dragonback Range, this fork of the river spread out in a lazy meander in an unexpected flat area among the peaks, then crashed down five dragonlengths and more to continue its journey.

Mnementh vaned his pinions and landed gently on the new meadow grass at the top of the waterfall, and F'lar thanked him for the easy landing.

 _I did not mean to frighten the girl._

"Mnementh says he's sorry if his flying frightened you," F'lar said, unfastening the riding straps from his belt and Tirina's.

"Only at first. I was really starting to enjoy it by the end. That was so beautiful to see everything looking so small! Are you sure he was flying slowly? Because it seemed fast to me!" Tirina shook out her skirts, took the riding jacket off, then put it back on against the high altitude chill, and gave Mnementh's shoulder a pat.

"Watch us in the races at the Summer Games. That's what fast looks like."

Tirina gave him a look, and F'lar wondered if he'd said something arrogant again when he was just trying to be straightforward.

"Come see the waterfall," F'lar said, holding out his hand.

Tirina took it and they strolled to the riverbank. The ground under their boots was marshy with the spring thaw until they got closer to the rocky edge of the river. Even just a dragonlength above the falls, the river was wide and leisurely, with eddies along the edges but a slow-moving middle, dark and deep. There were animal tracks leading to the dip in the bank, but with Mnementh around, not even rodents dared come for a drink.

F'lar hopped up to the flat boulders lining the river bank; there was an entire trail of flat white rocks leading to the waterfall, which is how Whiterock Waterfall got its name. Tirina caught his hand again and let him lead her along.

"This place isn't fair to the water, you know," F'lar said. "Look at it – it's just floating along in the river like it's supposed to, like it's always done, and it has no idea that it's about to drop off the face of the earth. Or at least, that's what a waterfall would feel like to the water. One second it's peacefully floating downstream, and then," F'lar paused and pointed as they reached the drop-off. The river seemed to just disappear, falling straight down five dragonlengths.

Tirina crowded behind him, peering over the falls to see the bottom, which was lost in white spray. "That sounded like a song for a harper."

F'lar shrugged self-consciously. "It's just a thought I had. The water doesn't know what's coming – it doesn't seem fair to drop it off the face of the earth like that."

"Water doesn't actually think, F'lar," Tirina said, with that teasing smile.

"Really? I had no idea."

Tirina laughed with him and hugged him from behind again. He needed to figure out a way to get her in front of him before they hugged again.

They watched the waterfall for a few minutes, the thunder of the crashing water and spray of water that blew back up in the wind, before turning back to the meadow.

"I've never been up here before," Tirina said. "Is it popular with the dragonriders?"

"Well, only if you like plummeting down through the spray on dragonback and swooping back up at the last possible minute before crashing to your death on the rocks. But since most dragonriders think that's the best possible way to spend an afternoon, yes, this place is popular with dragonriders," F'lar said.

Tirina gave him an astonished look and then chuckled. "That's two funny things you've said in the past few minutes. Maybe you do have a sense of humor."

F'lar shrugged again, hands shoved into his pockets, but he was smiling. Other people had a sense of humor; maybe he wasn't as different as he thought he was.

 _They come_ , Mnementh warned him.

"Who's coming?" F'lar asked.

The air was suddenly full of weyrlings and their dragons. Four of them landed, and three others dove right into the falls, skimming the spray before pulling back up with shouts of glee. The contest was to see who could get the closest to the rocks at the bottom without plowing into them.

"You did warn me this place was popular," Tirina said.

"I didn't think they were coming today," F'lar replied. Shards!

"You brought a girl?" F'nor demanded of them, sliding down Canth's shoulder.

"Tirina wanted to come flying," F'lar said. Why was she still standing behind him? True, she had a hand on his shoulder, but he couldn't get an arm around her back there.

F'nor's eyebrows went up as S'ril and Banath went shrieking down the falls. "Is she going to fly the falls?"

"Yes. F'lar's the best flyer in the Weyr, and I wouldn't miss it," Tirina said.

"Huh," was all F'nor could come up with.

K'net gave Tirina a suspicious look.

"Sanra would wet herself," L'rad observed.

"Ashi wouldn't." T'sum smacked L'rad in the chest. "Want to go see if we can talk the girls into flying the falls with us? Come on, F'nor, think you can get Arita to say yes?"

"I want to see Tirina take the falls. If she can do it, I'll go get Arita," F'nor said.

Tirina went up on her toes to whisper into F'lar's ear, "You do have good riding straps, right?"

"Now you ask? Let's fly the falls," F'lar said in reply.

She let him put her in front of him this time, because as he told her, he had stronger arms and could hold on tighter. He kept waiting for her to change her mind – Mnementh had scared her just banking into a glide – but she didn't back down.

"It's all right to scream, isn't it?" Tirina asked as Mnementh walked over to the cliff edge. He liked to fall straight down, only opening his wings when he pulled out of the descent.

"Didn't you hear S'ril? Screaming into the spray is part of the fun. And Tirina, the updrafts at the waterfall will bounce us around some, but the straps are tight. Besides, if you do fall off, you won't have very far to go by then. You can swim, right?" F'lar asked.

Tirina did not have time to answer before Mnementh was falling down the cliff. F'lar was busy holding onto the riding straps and Tirina at the same time. Shells, but this was fun! He added his voice to Tirina's for their few seconds in free fall before Mnementh opened his great wings and let the air currents buoy them up, bouncing with the white spray, then Mnementh flew them right under an errant stream of water that fell off the rocks at an oblique angle. He'd forgotten to warn her about that. They should have brought dry clothes.

Less than two minutes after they'd left it, Mnementh was landing in the clearing at the top of the falls to the cheers from the weyrlings and bugles of their dragons. Tirina was shaking and shuddering, and F'lar hoped it was with excitement.

"I don't have to do that again, do I?" she asked.

"Not if you don't want to," F'lar said.

Tirina collapsed onto Mnementh's neck. "By the First Egg that was . . . not something I want to do again, but I'm so proud I did it once!"

That struck F'lar as extremely funny.

~###~

F'lar and Tirina left the weyrlings about mid-afternoon. Tirina said she had a few other matters to attend to before the day ended, and F'lar was glad of the excuse to leave the weyrlings to their wild antics.

"Would Mnementh take us home the long way?" Tirina asked. She'd still insisted on sitting behind him.

"If you want." F'lar was pleased she wanted to get used to riding a dragon.

The flight home was slow and leisurely by F'lar's standards, though he could tell by Tirina's gasps and exclamations that flying still made her nervous. She let go of him long enough to point at things on the ground and shouted comments into his ear over the wind, and when he turned his head to reply, he saw her grinning with excitement. At last, Mnementh reached the Weyr and spiraled lazily over the Bowl, letting Tirina see the Weyr from above.

Mnementh landed on the Bowl floor and both of them dismounted. Before F'lar could come up with an excuse to prolong their day together, she took him by the sleeve and tugged him towards the Lower Caverns. "Come with me to the stores cavern and let's get you a new jacket."

"I didn't tear anything!"

Tirina laughed. "You didn't. But you have to keep pulling your sleeves down to meet the top of your riding gloves, and you could use a little more room in the chest."

F'lar had not noticed, but if Tirina wanted to find him a new jacket, he didn't mind spending more time in her company, especially alone in the stores cavern.

In the stores cavern, he unshielded several glows while Tirina started looking through a pile of wherhide riding jackets folded neatly across a hanging rod. She took the top jacket and shook it out with a snap of dust. Then she tossed it aside and repeated the procedure with two more jackets before finally tossing a fourth at F'lar. "Try that one," she said, shaking out a fifth jacket.

F'lar put it on. The wherhide was soft with prior use, more comfortable through the shoulders and arms than the one he was using. He was flexing his elbows and testing the pull when Tirina dropped the other jacket she'd selected and caught his hand, pulling his arm straight out. She twitched at the hem on the sleeve, then ran her hand from his shoulder to his wrist to check the length, then just as quickly did the same to his other arm. Satisfied, she tugged at the lapels and crossed the front over.

"You might fill that out in the chest in another six months, but try not to need that much room in the belly," she said.

F'lar failed to come up with a quick reply, too wrapped up in hoping she would check the length of his sleeves again.

"Here, take it off and let's try this one." Tirina suited action to words and helped him out of the jacket.

"I liked how soft the wherhide was," F'lar said, then mentally kicked himself for saying something so boring.

"Mmm," Tirina acknowledged as he put on the second jacket.

F'lar held still and stayed quiet while she checked the length of his sleeves, then closed the jacket over his chest.

"That's a better fit," she pronounced.

"Do you want to check the length in the back?" F'lar suggested.

Tirina gave him a long look, then turned him halfway around, set a hand at the neckline and ran her hand the length of the jacket, letting her hand linger just for a second where the hemline fell against his backside. "I think that's a good length."

"Want to check it again?"

Tirina chuckled. "Don't you wish."

F'lar took the risk of putting a hand at her waist. When she didn't slap his hand away, he said, "I wish for more than that."

"You'll not get it," she replied, but she still didn't move away from him. At least not until he moved to kiss her and she pushed him away.

"It's just a kiss, Tirina. D'nol won't know."

"I'll know, F'lar of Mnementh. And I'll ask you another thing." She wove her fingers into the black hair at the nape of his neck and pulled just hard enough to keep him from trying to kiss her again. "When I'm your lover, do you want me kissing every other dragonrider who needs a fitting? Take care of that jacket. I've got other duties to attend to."

Just that quickly, she was gone, leaving F'lar alone in the stores cavern, grinning like a wherry fool because she'd said 'when' and not 'if.'

~###~

F'lar spent the rest of the afternoon reading Records that were four hundred Turns old, from the last Pass of the Red Star. There was something awe-inspiring and mystifying about reading words written by people who were long dead, and realizing that he could learn from them. They were real dragonriders back then, fighting Thread and saving Pern, and then recording the information so someone like him could learn how it was done. The fact that F'lon thought Thread was coming back made the Records more interesting and immediate. It wasn't just history – this would soon be the present.

He turned another page and read the Recording of a Hatching in the last Pass. Twenty-four eggs at one time! And the Weyrwomen who wrote the names of every Hatchling and new dragonrider noted that smaller clutches were normal for late in a Pass. F'lar was amazed to think that twenty-four eggs could be considered a smaller than normal clutch. Nemorth laid only ten or twelve. But perhaps that was normal for an Interval, when Pern didn't need so many dragons. F'lar skipped ahead several dozen Turns in the Record to see if the clutches got smaller. His efforts were rewarded when he found a Hatching of only fifteen eggs. Fifteen was still more than Nemorth ever laid. He got so wrapped up in studying clutch sizes that he would have missed dinner if Mnementh hadn't rumbled that he wanted to have a wallow in the sand with the other dragons whose riders were at dinner.

F'lar stretched until his back popped then dashed out of his weyr and sprinted past Mnementh. "Race you to the ledge!"

Mnementh paced him in the wide corridor, and at the last possible second, F'lar was astride his neck and they were gliding down to the Bowl floor, with Mnementh commenting that if F'lar won the race, he would plummet to his death from the weyr ledge.

 _That's why I let you win every time_ , F'lar assured his dragon.

Mnementh replied with that dry rumble that F'lar assumed was the dragon equivalent of laughter.

At the hearth, F'lar ladled himself a bowl of stew, grateful that it wasn't spearleek mash tonight. Sometimes dinner on a rest day looked like the cooks simply threw everything into a pot and heated it up. He pulled a couple slices of bread off the bottom of the tray, knowing that the older bread was always on top, and found a seat at a table by himself even though he knew Tirina wouldn't going to join him for dinner.

F'lar ate steadily, keeping a subtle eye out for Tirina. As long as she didn't sit with D'nol tonight, he would assume she'd enjoyed today as much as he had.

F'nor popped into his line of vision and smacked him the chest. "Hey."

"Hey what?" F'lar replied, not bothering to disguise his irritation.

"I know why F'lon and S'lel worked so hard to get L'tol promoted to wingsecond even though it meant passing over some bronze riders," F'nor said.

"Good for you," F'lar said, still looking for Tirina and wishing F'nor would go get dinner and leave him alone.

"Don't you want to know?" F'nor demanded, straddling the bench next to him.

"I'll crack my shell if I don't find out right this minute," F'lar replied sarcastically.

"She's busy. I heard Manora ask her to help with the children, so you may as well talk to me," F'nor said.

F'lar glared at him, but quit looking around for Tirina.

"They did it to set the precedent that a brown rider can be wingsecond," F'nor said with a smug smile.

F'lar regarded him steadily until F'nor lost his assurance. "I assume you're going somewhere with this."

"You dimglow! F'lon wants me to be your wingsecond when you make wingleader. That's why L'tol got promoted – so I wouldn't be the first brown rider as wingsecond because it would look bad if the Weyrleader did that for his son," F'nor snapped out.

"Oh. Did it take you long to come up with that?"

"You know what, F'lar? Someone who looks as arrogant as you do should to take it down a couple pegs." F'nor pushed down hard on F'lar's shoulder to help himself off the bench and strode towards the dinner hearth.

F'lar scowled at F'nor's back because he was probably right – about the reason for L'tol's promotion, not about his arrogance. "It will depend on how well Canth flies!" F'lar called after him.

"Don't do me any favors, F'lar!" F'nor shouted back without turning around.

Later that night, F'lar looked in the polished piece of metal in his weyr. The soft light from the glowbaskets glided over the scratched surface of the square, leaving part of his face in shadow. His high-bridged nose and deepset amber eyes were the only features that looked different from F'nor's, so he assumed that was why people thought he looked arrogant. They both had thin lips and square chins. No one thought F'nor was arrogant. He rubbed his eyes and sighed.

F'lar sat down on his bed and pulled one of the rushes out through a tear in the mattress bag and began to shred it, mulling over a childhood memory. Back when he and F'nor and the others were children, he'd done something to anger F'nor. He couldn't remember what it was, but it had been serious enough to prick F'nor's easy-going nature. He'd avoided F'lar for days. What had surprised F'lar about the incident was that all the other boys had avoided him as well. He'd thought they were all equally friends, but it turned out they were F'nor's friends, and F'lar was only included on F'nor's account. F'lar still felt the sting of that – he was three Turns F'nor's senior and by rights he should have been the leader of the boys. Fair or not, none of those boys would sit by him at meals or play Threadfall with him until F'nor got over his tiff and started including F'lar again.

He finished shredding that rush and pulled out another one, trying to come up with an option and not finding one. The truth was, F'nor still had more friends, and F'lar was uneasy about alienating F'nor even though his half-brother irritated him at times. Still, F'nor had a lot of nerve to accuse F'lar of arrogance when he was the one who had just promoted himself to wingsecond while he was still a weyrling.

F'lar scowled again, and then the truth stilled his fingers and changed his mind. It wasn't F'nor's idea at all – it was F'lon's idea. F'nor had just figured it out. F'lon wanted him to choose his brother as wingsecond. F'lar stood up to pace. He could see for himself how difficult being Weyrleader was. F'lon didn't have a loyal, strong supporter among the other senior riders. C'latan was too old and tired to be anything more than nominally loyal, and while S'lel frequently agreed with F'lon, he wasn't always willing to say so in public. F'lon was setting it up so that F'lar would have support. A popular wingsecond would be an invaluable asset to F'lar when he was wingleader and then Weyrleader.

With a grunt of laughter, F'lar shook his head and capitulated to F'nor's outrageous claim. Then he went to bed.

The next morning, F'lar took his bowl of porridge and seated himself next to F'nor. "Pass the klah."

F'nor slammed the pot of klah down in front of F'lar hard enough to make it splash a few drops onto the table.

"Thanks," F'lar said mildly, pouring himself a mug. "I thought about it. You can be my wingsecond."

F'nor turned an outraged and disgusted look on F'lar. He rolled his eyes to the ceiling, blew out a disgusted breath, and then punched F'lar in the shoulder, hard.

So F'lar punched him back.

And all was well.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

T'bor said he didn't think S'lel would mind if F'lar came to watch their wing practice the winding pass maneuver, so F'lar assumed that was as good as an invitation and arrived after riding the west coast sweep with his own wing. Mnementh stayed well back from the bowl valley the wings used for informal practice and perched on the ridge. They were above the dragons at this vantage point; the overlapping patterns looking like a dance.

 _A dance of dragons_ , F'lar said to Mnementh.

 _Tuenth corners quickly; and I do not see why Orth must hold that position,_ Mnementh replied.

F'lar studied the pattern. On the second repetition, he saw Orth was holding the anchor position to provide a reference point for the smaller blue and green dragons who formed the middle of the pass. The larger bronze and brown dragons held the end positions, defining the area covered by their smaller and more maneuverable wingmates.

 _If Thread were falling, the wing would have four chances to flame it before it reached the ground_ , F'lar said.

 _The area they defend is not large_ , Mnementh replied.

F'lar nodded. It was a very tight maneuver. Other wings would have to be flying arrow formations around them, with that winding pass maneuver focusing extra defense over a critical position – perhaps over a Hold or a field of crops. Or perhaps the wing would have seen people caught out in Threadfall and they would fly that defense to save lives. Caught up in imagining heroic scenarios, F'lar designed the flight pattern for supporting wings around them and considered which wingleader would have precedence in leadership. It would be even more exciting to watch when they practiced with firestone.

 _Do you see how Larth weaves around Tuenth? What advantage does that give them?_ F'lar queried.

 _Larth should be on the other side of the maneuver_ , Mnementh agreed.

F'lar nodded. The wingsecond and wingleader shouldn't be flying around each other. The leadership should separate and guide from opposite ends. He wanted to get his hands on the diagrams F'lon had shown S'lel and see if they were flying it correctly. If the problem were obvious to him, surely S'lel had seen it too.

~###~

After dinner that evening, T'bor joined F'lar at a table of junior riders who were discussing the full wing maneuvers, his face already split in a grin. "Did you see? It's cracking good to be trying something new."

F'lar couldn't help grinning back. "It was intense to watch. That sort of pattern would maximize a wing's defense if Thread fell over a critical location."

"Thread?" T'bor chuckled.

"That's a Thread-fighting pattern, T'bor."

T'bor shrugged and accepted a mug of _klah_ from his wing's blue rider. "We're using it for style points, F'lar. S'lel wants the trophy in the Games. They changed up the pattern to increase the intricacy. By the time we get to the Games, your stacked arrow formation will look as staid as a traditional arrow."

"That's why Larth and Tuenth are flying around each other! That wouldn't make any sense if you were using that maneuver against Thread," F'lar exclaimed, excited that his eye for the maneuver's weakness had been correct.

"They're Games, F'lar," T'bor said.

"Sure, but we're using the Games to prepare to fight Thread."

T'bor gave him a look of amused toleration. "You sound like F'lon."

"What a coincidence," F'lar said drily, and didn't pursue the conversation once T'bor turned to speak with S'lan, whose wing was flying a traditional arrow formation in the Games.

When he looked away, he caught V'van's eye, who gave him a sympathetic smile. F'lar didn't respond. He didn't want V'van's sympathy. T'bor shouldn't be laughing off the idea of Thread. And H'pan shouldn't be nodding and agreeing with him. But the conversation moved on to the relay races, and the bragging the defending champions were doing about their likelihood of another win.

~###~

After a sevenday of flying sweep patterns along the southwestern coast, F'lar was ready for a rest day, but not sure if he was taking Tirina flying again or not. Days ago, she'd agreed to come with him, but then she'd practically ignored him every evening. He'd finally given up on waiting around for her after dinner in the Lower Caverns and took old Records to his weyr instead. By the morning of the next rest day, F'lar was tired of her games and not sure he wanted to pursue Tirina if she was going to lead him on and push him back at the same time. He was bracing himself to hear her excuse to not come flying with him today when he saw her walking towards them in a wherhide riding jacket, carrying a basket.

She handed him the basket. "That's our picnic. I'll go get the blanket and be right back."

F'lar tied on the basket while Tirina fetched a blanket and threaded a riding belt onto her jacket. She favored him with such a wicked grin that his irritation at her for keeping her distance all this week disappeared. She swung into place behind F'lar and fastened the riding straps before putting her arms around his waist and settling snugly against him. Mnementh's leap into the air made her gasp and hold on more tightly.

As Mnementh flew up to the Rim, Tirina pulled his jacket collar out of the way and pressed a slow kiss onto the base of F'lar's neck. "Can I pick where we go today?"

"Where do you want to go?" F'lar asked, his heart beating faster after that sensual kiss and the way Tirina was holding herself against his back.

One of Tirina's hands stroked up his chest and held his shoulder; the other began to massage his belly. "Somewhere without weyrlings."

"I can do that."

"Good," and she kissed his neck again.

Mnementh crested the Rim and banked into a long glide through the crevice behind the Weyr, then beat back up to clear the peak of the lower ridge. F'lar didn't have a specific destination in mind. He let Mnementh choose their way, knowing the dragon could sense F'lar's emotional state and wouldn't take too long. With Tirina behind him, the most he could do was hold the hand on his shoulder – he didn't want to interfere with her other hand.

F'lar's breathing was ragged by the time Mnementh arched his pinions to lose speed, then backwinged to land almost vertically in a clearing among a stand of silverleaf trees that was barely large enough to contain him. With Mnementh around, there wasn't a sound out of any other animals or birds, but there was the rush of a stream out of sight through the trees.

F'lar swung his leg over and dismounted in time to catch Tirina on her way down. He pinned her between him and Mnementh and kissed her hungrily. She wrapped her arms around him and shivered when his hand ran down the curve of her hip.

Mnementh bugled with excitement.

Tirina burst out laughing, which shocked F'lar out of his ardor long enough to stare at her.

"That's why I couldn't kiss you in the stores cavern last rest day or even sit by you in the evenings this week," Tirina explained. "I couldn't have Mnementh announcing the two of us to the entire Weyr while I was still trying to convince D'nol that ending our relationship is actually his idea."

"Why can't it be your idea to end the relationship?"

"You dimglow – you've noticed the tension between F'lon and R'gul. D'nol is R'gul's Wingsecond, so there's already reason to dislike you. I'll not add to that when I can easily prevent it."

F'lar, stupidly, realized he'd never thought the women in the Lower Caverns noticed what went on between dragonriders. But still. There was no reason to discuss Weyr politics right now. She was still caught between him and Mnementh, and he looped an arm around her neck so she couldn't easily dodge his kiss or push him away again. All the fascination he'd felt for Tirina over the past several Turns translated into desire and urgency. He'd meant to be suave and controlled, and instead it was all he could do to not tear any clothing, but only because he knew Tirina would tease him endlessly if he did.

~###~

In the Turns to come, F'lar would often look back on this last month before the Games as the happiest and most carefree time of his life. He was head over heels in his first adult romance, confident about his prospects for a personal and team trophy in the Games, and talking regularly with F'lon about what he'd found in the Records about Thread. Life hummed along, sweeping F'lar along with it in the contented assumption that if he continued to do what he should be doing, life would continue as it always had. Like the water flowing towards Whiterock Waterfall, he didn't see the drop-off until he was already plummeting down.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

In hindsight, the Weyr's senior riders agreed that they should have canceled the Games when a messenger on a runnerbeast brought the news to the Weyr about Nabol Hold and Ruatha Hold. Finding out that Lord Fax had conquered Nabol Hold was bad enough, but news of the atrocity at Ruatha cast a gray pall over the Weyr. The entire Bloodline slaughtered in their sleep, and everyone loyal to Ruatha's noble heritage either put to the sword or sentenced to a life of drudgery.

The messenger stayed only long enough to relay his message; he left the Weyr the same day he came. F'lon didn't make a formal announcement of the news – it simply crept throughout the Weyr like a tunnel snake. Dragonriders quietly shared memories of visits to Ruatha Hold, for it was one of the few Holds on Pern that still warmly welcomed dragons and their riders. Then the stories trailed off into shocked silence, with a shake of the head and lips pressed together. When questioned at dinner, F'lon brusquely replied that it was Holder business, but his voice shook as he repeated the excuse that R'gul had been loudly proclaiming throughout the Weyr all that day, as if to defend all the dragonriders against the guilt and shame of their failure to stop Lord Fax before the slaughter at Ruatha.

"Tillek, High Reaches and Fort are heavily armed against Lord Fax. They'll contain him," R'gul said, giving the impression that he'd heard this from the messenger.

F'lon nodded without looking up.

"We should have done something," F'nor hissed in a whisper to F'lar.

F'lar's first instinct was to trounce F'nor for this criticism of their sire, but deep in his bones, he wished they'd done something too. Torn between his loyalty to F'lon and his agreement with F'nor, he scowled at his plate and stopped pretending to eat.

"We couldn't set dragons to attack people," F'lar finally said.

"Then we could have done something else," F'nor insisted.

"Like what?" F'lar demanded, still keeping his voice low enough to blend in with the other whispers around them.

"We would have thought of something," F'nor said.

"You'll remember that F'lon tried to help. It wasn't just R'gul who told us to mind our own business. Lord Raid of Benden Hold didn't want the Weyr to interfere, and he said he spoke for all the Lord Holders," F'lar said.

F'nor relaxed a bit at this reminder and nodded. "Ruatha's blood isn't on F'lon's head. It's people like R'gul and Lord Raid who should feel guilty."

It wouldn't matter who should bear the guilt; F'lon would feel it.

"Will we cancel or postpone the Games?" V'sen, bronze rider and Wingleader, asked.

F'lon looked up and shook off the aura of despair. "No. The Weyr will be ready to protect Pern when the time comes. The Games will continue as scheduled."

"What's that about?" F'nor whispered to F'lar.

"The Games prepare us to fight Thread. Maybe we can't protect the Holders against Lord Fax; but we'll be ready when Thread falls," F'lar said.

"Not even for a period of mourning?" V'sen demanded.

R'gul and D'nol looked properly shocked.

"The Weyr will ready itself to fulfill its traditional duties. The Games will proceed as planned," F'lon insisted.

There was a murmur, and then it died down.

~###~

"Sir?" F'lar approached F'lon as he oiled Simanith's bronze hide.

"Hmm?" F'lon didn't pause the rubdown he was giving Simanith.

"I wanted to tell you I support your decision to keep the Games on schedule," F'lar said, hoping he didn't presume too much. F'lon didn't need his approval, but he seemed so alone at dinner that F'lar felt compelled to offer him some support, even if it was only from a junior bronze rider.

That did pause F'lon's rubbing, and he wiped his hands on a towel and turned towards F'lar, leaning against Simanith's gleaming bronze shoulder. His eyes were faraway, and his face had fallen into that tired expression that disturbed F'lar so much. "It's all we've got left, F'lar. If we don't fly the Games, then dragons aren't much more than a herdbeast with wings."

That shocked F'lar.

"Oh, I don't mean it like that, wipe that look off your face, F'lar. But sometimes I wonder how much of what I believe about Thread is fact, and how much is just plain old hope." He laughed a soft and bitter laugh. "I've cracked my shell if I'm hoping for Thread. But you've read those Records, F'lar – the glory days of riding a dragon! I was born four hundred Turns too late. I should have lived to flame Thread and protect Pern. I don't understand R'gul. Or actually, I understand him perfectly and I'm afraid I'll someday come to agree with him and then there won't be any point to living at all. I'm not making any sense, am I?"

"Yes, sir, I mean, no, sir."

F'lon laughed that bitter laugh again. "You're too young to know what it feels like to wonder if you've wasted your life." He twisted the towel around and around his hands. "We have to fly the Games – they're the memory and promise of why we have dragons at all. And it feels so empty to have Games as the sole motivation for a life."

"But you said Thread is coming back; the Games get us ready," F'lar said, disturbed by F'lon's bleak words.

"Sure it is," F'lon said with disgust. "Sure, Thread will come back, just so I don't feel like my whole life has been pointless. The real purpose of Thread is to give dragonriders a chance to feel useful. Because otherwise we're a parasitic waste of the tithe, though Lord Raid was too politic to say so outright."

F'lar took a step back, appalled at F'lon's words.

"Don't listen to me, F'lar. Don't listen to a word I say. I'm just a broken down old man who tried his best and got beat. Go on then," F'lon said, nodding to someone behind F'lar.

F'lar turned and saw Tirina approaching them. He turned back to F'lon, confused.

"Go on, F'lar, and forget everything I just said. I'll be fine in the morning." F'lon threw the towel over his shoulder and gave Simanith a slap before walking off.

"I didn't mean to interrupt you," Tirina said.

"Then why did you come over?" F'lar replied.

Tirina drew back at his tone. "I just wondered how the Weyrleader was doing. I wanted to help if I could. I know Manora worries about him; he seems so alone sometimes."

F'lar wished she hadn't noticed that. He wanted people to admire F'lon for being a strong and confident Weyrleader, not pity him. But he'd approached F'lon tonight for the same reason Tirina had – he'd wanted to help. And there was F'lon, walking away from them across the floor of the Bowl with his shoulders slumped.

F'lar was suddenly angry at his sire for being no better than human when F'lar wanted him to be infallible.

~###~

The Games proceeded as scheduled, though some of the pomp seemed forced and empty. F'lar won the personal trophy for Threadrag flaming, but since that was expected, no one had bet against him and his triumph was mostly a matter of course. They cheered for him, and Tirina offered a very personal congratulations that night in his weyr, but winning the trophy didn't seem to be as important as it had seemed a month ago. The dragonriders were going through the motions of the Games, with F'lon dragging them through the events and insisting this was important, but for reasons no one else believed.

"Do you see how going _between_ during a wingtip turn will help us dodge Thread?" F'lar asked Tirina from the rough wooden stands perched around the valley while they were watching V'sen's Wing compete.

"Sure, F'lar," Tirina said.

"It's important, Tirina," F'lar insisted.

"Yes, I know."

F'lar turned back to the spectacle where V'sen and B'rant were flickering in and out of _between_ in synchronization, jumping a dragonlength ahead with each repetition. Tirina didn't believe Thread was coming back, but humored him when the subject came up because she didn't think it was worth an argument. It frustrated him.

The full wing flame maneuvers were held the final sevenday of the Games. The Weyr's mood had improved some over the course of the Games, and there was much chatter and betting going on about how the new formations would score against the traditional arrow formation. The wingleaders drew for competition order. F'lon drew fourth. R'gul's Wing would compete first.

Because of the length of the event, only one wing could compete each day during the noon hour when the sun marked the shadows and the judges could see that the dragons stayed within the playing field's boundaries. The rest of the Weyr took their places as spectators on the valley floor outside the playing field boundaries, or on the niches and terraces along the hillsides. The judges' platform was erected on a ledge jutting out from sheer stone wall, with older and retired dragonriders serving as judges.

Like the rest of the dragonriders, F'lar and Mnementh brought several people from the Weyr's Lower Caverns and dropped them off near a terrace where some of the weyrmen had erected wooden risers. The Weyr emptied itself to send cooks, seamstresses, beastherders, children and drudges to this event. F'lar kept Tirina with him and they found a place on a ledge with the other members of his wing.

R'gul's Wing flew the traditional arrow formation. The claxon sounded, and all twelve dragons launched from the heights, falling from the cliff one by one in a splendid display of skill, backwinging neatly on the turns and staying within the playing field boundaries. Every time all twelve dragons blasted out gouts of flame in unison, a roar of cheers rose from the scattered crowd. The acrid smell of firestone floated over the valley. It was a tightly flown and well-executed display. F'lar applauded hard, but thought it was also a bit boring to be so perfect at such a simple formation. Tomorrow, V'sen's Wing would fly another traditional arrow formation. The day after that, S'lel's Wing would fly the winding pass maneuver, and then the fourth day would be their turn to fly the stacked arrow formation.

R'gul's Wing landed on the playing field, and the spectators and competitors gathered to spend the afternoon outside, eating, drinking and relaxing together. Mnementh brought F'lar and Tirina down to the valley floor and then launched himself back into the air to find a sunny ledge.

"This is like a Gather at a Hold, isn't it?" F'lar asked Tirina as they sipped wine and walked around, avoiding the weyrlings.

"Something like, I suppose. There isn't any music or dancing or anything to buy," Tirina said with a shrug. "At a Hold's Gather, there would be a dozen harpers, and stalls full of goods from tanneries, weavers, or woodcrafting, not to mention all the different kinds of food and wine."

C'gan was the Weyr's only harper, but he was also the weyrlingmaster. He claimed to be too tired to play the harp and gitar for any reason besides teaching weyrlings. F'lar had never seen or participated in any dances besides the drum dancing they did at the Turnover celebration. And no one in the Weyr needed to buy anything since they received all they needed from tithes or the stores cavern. F'lar knew about marks, but he'd only seen them occasionally and never spent any himself. It didn't seem like the Weyr had much use for Gathers.

"Perhaps the Holds could invite dragonriders to their Gathers someday," F'lar said.

"They used to. I remember helping dragonriders mend their finery before going to a Gather, but that was Turns and Turns ago," Tirina said, and then her expression fell into sadness.

F'lar didn't have to ask if the Gather had been at Ruatha Hold.

They were so busy avoiding the weyrlings that they forgot to avoid D'nol. He and the other riders from R'gul's Wing were taking turns at a game of chance when he whirled after a particularly lucky throw and nearly clipped Tirina in the ear.

"Beg your pardon, Tirina," D'nol said.

"No harm done, D'nol. That was well-flown today," Tirina replied politely.

F'lar took her elbow. "Good flying, D'nol."

D'nol inclined his head in acknowledgement. He didn't look the least bit jealous that Tirina was with F'lar today. In fact, he seemed a trifle smug about it as he turned back to the game. It brought up a question F'lar had been meaning to ask Tirina for a month now.

"How did you convince D'nol that ending your relationship was his idea?"

Tirina glanced over her shoulder to make sure D'nol was out of earshot. "That's a trade secret, F'lar."

"Tirina!"

She playfully bumped her hip against his. "Women don't tell men all their secrets."

~###~

Two days later, F'lar and Tirina were in the stands again, waiting for the Game claxon to sound to signal the start of S'lel's Wing in the winding pass maneuver. The prospect of something new lifted the Weyr's spirits, and there were friendly arguments and talk of wagers scattered all through the spectators. F'lar and Tirina were seated higher in the stands today, and could catch glimpses of the dragons on the heights taking practice jumps, and every so often exhaling flame.

The claxon rang and the crowd welcomed the wing with a cheer as S'lel's bronze Tuenth fell from the ledge into flight, followed closely by the rest of the dragonriders. The blue and green dragons dropped a level and formed up around T'bor's Orth as the brown and bronze dragons took their positions. The first time the dragons flamed, F'lar worried that they'd timed the flaming wrong, but then he saw that the dragons were flaming in succession instead of in unison. The effect was beautiful, with the flames darting unexpectedly through the maneuver. More style points for S'lel, F'lar realized, and for the first time he genuinely worried that F'lon's Wing would place second.

The first level of the pass completed, all the dragons glided for a dragonlength in formation, then half of them turned south while the other half turned north for the next pass. Larth and Tuenth flew wingtip to wingtip, then rotated and flamed. F'lar was looking right at the accident when it happened, but his mind didn't register what had happened until Larth screamed and tried to wrench his way out of the flame blast from Tuenth. The horrific sound jerked the entire wing out of the pattern, random gouts of flame spouting from the dragons, and then L'tol was falling, trailing smoke, riding straps torn through by the fire and force of Larth's movement. F'lar wondered if T'bor even knew what had happened before L'tol fell onto Orth's back. T'bor turned in the straps, seized L'tol, and Orth winked into _between_.

Agonized bellows from Larth still filled the air as other dragons flew towards him, trying to stop his fall. Larth's left wing was crisped, his body scorched, and his bellowing was mixed with flame. As terrible as the sounds were, it was worse when they ended. For a few paralyzed seconds, there was silence, and then the air vibrated with the ululating keen of dragons mourning the passing of one of their kind.

Simanith plummeted down from the ledge, swooping to get F'lon and then landing on the playing field. F'lar saw Manora and both of the weyr's healers sprinting towards Simanith. T'bor must have taken L'tol back to the Weyr, but everyone who could have helped him was here. Simanith launched himself into the air with his passengers and went _between_.

"Do you think he survived?" Tirina whispered in shock.

F'lar only shook his head, unable to think at all.

~###~

Late in the evening, most of the weyrfolk were still in the Bowl, holding vigil for L'tol. They'd taken him to one of the empty weyrs intended for junior queens, off the Bowl, instead of taking him to the infirmary in the Lower Caverns where he might catch an infection from a coughing child. L'tol was alive, but every other detail was a rumor. His wounds were superficial and he would be up and around by tomorrow. His wounds were so serious he might die at any moment. He was suicidal. He wanted to live to honor Larth's memory. The scarring was so severe he would never look normal again. The burns were confined to his arm and chest. He'd been dosed into unconsciousness. He was awake. No one knew anything, but everyone was willing to guess.

F'lar was on the edges of the crowd, fidgeting with uselessness. He wanted to be too busy to think, because the only thought that presented itself was what might happen to him if Mnementh died. He couldn't fathom what L'tol was experiencing right now. Perhaps the pain of the burns was a relief because it smothered the pain of Larth's death. Could a man survive that much pain?

He could fetch numbweed. They hadn't asked for it, and Manora probably already had pots of it in there, but it would give him something to do. Burns hurt. L'tol would need constant applications of numbweed. Even if they didn't need numbweed right now, they would need it soon. Then he would have done something to lessen L'tol's pain, however inconsequential.

F'lar entered the healer cavern from the Bowl entrance. The healer cavern was dim – most of the light came from the other end of the room, at the entry to the kitchens where the cooks were boiling soup that no one had the heart to eat. He fumbled to unshield more glows, but they were missing from the shelf. Most likely they'd been taken to the weyr for L'tol, since those junior queen weyrs were empty of everything, even glows. A few jars and bags on the shelves were knocked askew, clutter left after grabbing everything that might be useful to treat burns. F'lar counted shelves, trying to remember where he'd seen the numbweed when Manora had shown him around back here. Either he had the wrong shelf, or they'd taken all the pots already. F'lar didn't know where the vats of numbweed would be found in the stores cavern. Frustrated that his errand had come to nothing, he turned to leave when a human sound drew his attention.

A man was slumped over a table at the edge of the kitchen light, and the sound was a groan. There was a limp wineskin discarded on the table, and without raising his head, he was pouring from a second wineskin into a cup. His hand shook and some of the wine spilled. He raised the cup to his lips and swallowed it in gulps. It was S'lel.

F'lar watched him drain another cupful, and wondered whether it would be worse to be S'lel or L'tol tonight. S'lel still had a dragon, but he carried the blame for L'tol's loss. He sat alone, unlike the vigil outside L'tol's weyr. A kitchen drudge crept out and picked up the empty wineskin and scurried off. If S'lel was into his second wineskin already, he could drink himself to death. F'lar wondered if he should do anything. S'lel was only a half a dragonlength away, but between them lay S'lel's ineradicable guilt and F'lar's youth.

"He's over there, sir," the kitchen drudge said to someone, pointing at S'lel.

F'lon walked towards S'lel, and F'lar withdrew a little further into the shadows, relieved that his sire was here. F'lon would do the right thing, whatever that was.

F'lon seated himself on the bench next to S'lel. F'lar couldn't hear what he said, but S'lel offered him the next cup. F'lon drank it and handed it back. They alternated cups of wine interspersed with unintelligible broken sentences, S'lel's head jerking around like an agitated dragon. After the third dose, F'lon put a hand on S'lel's back. At the touch, S'lel dropped the cup on the floor and collapsed on the table, sobbing loudly and drunkenly. F'lon sat there with him, his hand on S'lel's back as the cavern echoed with S'lel's regret.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

The Games stopped. Without any discussion, everyone in the Weyr knew there would be no further mention of the Games this year. The air itself seemed gray with grief, and every dragon in the Weyr was tinged with gray around eyes and muzzles, in the manner of a grieving dragon. The other dragons in L'tol's wing spent two days huddled in a heap near the Weyr lake, faded colors and limp wings tangled over each other. Tuenth was with them.

S'lel was not so welcome, or perhaps he had voluntarily absented himself. But for two days, no one saw either S'lel or L'tol. On the third day after Larth died, F'lon walked S'lel into the Lower Caverns and seated them both at a table. Perhaps they'd made arrangements beforehand, because one of the women tending the hearth brought them plates of food. F'lar was at a table with other junior riders, and all conversation stopped.

H'pan, who was sitting with D'wer, the blue rider from S'lel's Wing, gave an almost inaudible whistle of sympathy, shaking his head. "I wouldn't fancy that sort of help."

"He must feel so guilty," D'wer said, his voice unsteady.

H'pan put an arm around D'wer's shoulders.

"It wasn't his fault, D'wer," H'pan said gently. "It wasn't S'lel's fault."

F'lar wondered how he could say something so ridiculous, but the challenge in H'pan's expression brought him up short. H'pan wanted F'lar to ask what he was talking about, and for that reason, F'lar decided not to say a word.

V'sen, another Wingleader, approached F'lon and S'lel. "Is this seat taken?"

F'lon gestured for him to sit with them. Slowly, another four senior riders joined F'lon and S'lel, including B'refli, rider of a brown dragon in S'lel's Wing. There was no conversation, but at least they were there, eating dinner and sipping klah together.

H'pan kept glaring at F'lar, his expression getting angrier as D'wer got sadder. F'lar refused to rise to the bait, not wanting anything to mar what F'lon was trying to do for S'lel right now. He couldn't understand why H'pan would try to pick a fight on an evening like this one.

D'wer's sadness eventually gave way to quiet tears. H'pan gently massaged his shoulders, and invited him to come away. Still crying, D'wer left the table with H'pan. H'pan threw another look of anger at F'lar as the two of them left the dining area. Several of the other blue and green riders at the table shot angry looks in F'lar's direction.

V'van, who had kept his head down since he'd caught sight of F'lon and S'lel, risked a glance at F'lar. He gave him a relieved look, a cautious smile, and then ducked his head back down. It appeared that H'pan's unexplainable grudge against F'lar was now spreading throughout the other green and blue riders, though V'van was still willing to be loyal to him.

"Do you know why H'pan doesn't like me?" F'lar asked V'van quietly.

V'van looked so ill-at-ease that F'lar regretted asking the question. "Do you mean in general, or just tonight? You know – I hear Jizith calling. He's needed lots of extra attention these past couple days. I shouldn't keep him waiting. Good evening to you, F'lar." And V'van was gone.

F'lar looked over at G'toril, who simply refused to look back. He wondered if the brown rider had any idea what was going on. The atmosphere at the table was so obviously against him that F'lar left within a couple of minutes. He wanted Mnementh.

The big dragon was drooping with the rest of them by the weyr's lake. He raised his head and bugled a restrained welcome as F'lar approached. Some of the other dragons raised their heads, and then dropped them again. Mnementh didn't get up, so F'lar climbed into the crook of his foreleg and leaned against Mnementh's chest, closing his eyes and listening for the beating of his heart. His hand went up to scratch his dragon's soft hide. Mnementh's soft croon helped erase the uncomfortable episode at dinner. F'lar didn't feel like spending the evening in the Lower Caverns tonight, nor did he want to read Records. And for the first time in a month, he wasn't in the mood to invite Tirina to his weyr either. It was enough to relax here with Mnementh. The tension and sadness bled out of him until he started to doze, propped up against Mnementh.

 _She is here_ , Mnementh said.

F'lar opened his eyes.

"I didn't mean to wake you," Tirina said.

"I wasn't really sleeping."

Mnementh shifted, and now there was room for Tirina to seat herself against Mnementh's shoulder.

"I saw L'tol."

"You did?"

Tirina nodded, her brown eyes sad. "He wants to leave the Weyr. He asked me for an introduction to the Master Weaver at the Crafthall at High Reaches Hold. He's going there."

F'lar didn't know what to say. All the words caught in his throat. How could a dragonman leave the Weyr? But how could a man who had lost his dragon bear to stay?

"The scarring isn't terrible. The left side of his face is still bandaged, but the fire didn't disfigure him too badly. The wherhide jacket kept the fire from burning his chest too deeply. Manora wants him to rest a few more days, but I don't think he will. He didn't talk much – just asked me to write an introduction to the Master Weaver," Tirina said.

"I suppose F'lon will take him," F'lar said, just to say something.

"He's going by runnerbeast. Manora made the same offer while I was there and he said he'd never ride a dragon again," Tirina said.

F'lar nodded. "High Reaches? That's so far away – the other side of the continent."

"That's probably why he chose it."

"But Fax is that direction," F'lar said.

"It's still as far away as he can get from the Weyr, and Fax might not conquer a seventh Hold."

F'lar nodded and leaned back into the crook of Mnementh's foreleg. Tirina let the conversation go. Several moments passed in companionable silence.

"F'lar? Have you heard what they're saying?"

"About what?"

"About whose fault it is."

It sickened him that anyone would try to attach blame to what could only be called a terrible accident. "It's no one's fault." But then he reconsidered. If S'lel hadn't changed the pattern to try and get extra style points, Larth wouldn't have been flying so close to Tuenth.

"I've heard them say it, and I don't agree with it, but they're saying it's F'lon's fault."

"What?!" F'lar was so shocked that Mnementh raised his head and trumpeted. F'lar coaxed him back down and patted his muzzle.

"They're saying that if F'lon hadn't convinced S'lel to try a new maneuver, it wouldn't have happened."

"Who is saying it, Tirina?" F'lar demanded.

"I've just heard some murmurs, whispers really."

Suddenly the entire episode at dinner made sense in a twisted way.

"Who?"

"R'gul mostly. D'nol agrees with him, but D'nol usually agrees with him. It's just that everyone is so shocked. It's all just talk, but I thought you should know. You and F'lon are the only ones in the Weyr who believe Thread is coming back, and if you didn't believe it, then F'lon wouldn't be trying to sneak all that new stuff into the Games, and, well, Larth wouldn't have died."

"And that qualifies as reasonable? Why don't we just say that it's the weather's fault, because if it had been cloudy, we would have postponed the event. Or let's blame it on the fact we all got out of bed that morning, because if plague had swept through the Weyr and we all died in our sleep, we wouldn't have flown the event either. Or how about blaming it on S'lel for changing that maneuver and putting Larth too close to Tuenth?"

"Don't yell at me, F'lar. I'm just telling you what they're saying."

"And why are you listening to R'gul and D'nol anyway? I thought your relationship with D'nol was over. You just decided to drop by and ask him his opinion about my father?"

"You're getting caught up in the talk too, F'lar. Everyone knows you agree with F'lon."

"Oh, and now I'm responsible for Larth dying because I think Thread is coming back? Is that it? Do you think I killed Larth?"

"F'lar, you're upsetting the dragons."

"They're upset because Larth died, Tirina!"

Tirina climbed to her feet, tears dripping down her cheeks. "I'm sorry I tried to warn you about what's happening. I thought you should know, but I won't bother you again."

F'lar watched her go and convinced himself that she was crying about L'tol and Larth. He hadn't been yelling at her; he'd just been upset at what she said, and she should understand that.

He couldn't relax with Mnementh anymore. His agitation was so great that he stood up and paced. It was the most unfair accusation he'd ever heard. F'lon was exercising all his authority as Weyrleader to help S'lel right now, to get them all past this terrible accident, and they should all see that. If they started blaming each other, it could only get worse.

~###~

L'tol left the next day. None of the dragonriders saw him leave, but F'lar heard about it from F'nor, who had talked to Manora, who had packed him clothes and food for the journey. Two of the weyrmen went with him, since L'tol didn't know how to ride and care for a runnerbeast.

The pall of grief over the Weyr lifted with L'tol's departure, but only enough to allow tempers to flare. With the Games ended prematurely, and no one scheduled to ride sweep patrols, the dragonriders all stayed in the Weyr, idle. The grief started working its way into anger and blame, finding its way into old grudges and conflicts like a tunnel snake seeking the easiest path to its prey. R'gul's idea about blaming F'lon came up more and more. It was impossible to avoid hearing it now, but they might have gotten past it if S'lel hadn't decided to believe it too.

Relieved of the blame for Larth's death, S'lel became a victim of F'lon's unreasonable Weyr policies and his ridiculous obsession with Thread returning. F'lon had pressured him into flying that maneuver in the Games. R'gul was loudest about sympathizing with S'lel and assuring him that he wasn't to blame for his lapse in judgment – a bronze rider ought to be able to trust his Weyrleader, and it wasn't his fault they had one who wasn't trustworthy.

The betrayal cut F'lon deeply. F'lar could see it in the lines that appeared overnight around his mouth, and in his eyes that looked a thousand Turns old. The sixth day after Larth's death, R'gul reversed F'lon's compassionate attempt to reintegrate S'lel into the cadre of senior riders by isolating F'lon at the dinner table. The junior riders, weyrlings and women all watched it happen – every senior rider served himself from the hearth, and then chose a seat away from F'lon. F'lar watched desperately for C'latan to come to dinner. Surely F'lon's Wingsecond would sit with him.

Then F'lar remembered C'latan had complained of ill health that afternoon. He might not be coming to dinner.

 _Mnementh! Bespeak Kogath and tell him C'latan is needed at the dining tables. F'lon needs him!_

There was a brief pause, and then Mnementh replied, _He will come._

The minutes were too long, but eventually C'latan came to the dining area, served himself, and pulled out the empty chair next to F'lon. He nodded at the other senior riders, most of whom were giving him black looks, greeted F'lon as if nothing were out of order, and proceeded to eat dinner.

The tension didn't break. F'lon was losing the Weyr. He couldn't be deposed as Weyrleader unless another bronze dragon flew Nemorth, but he could be made useless as a leader. Jora had proved that – position didn't grant authority.

"Say it openly! I've heard the rumors, and if you want to accuse me, say it to my face!" F'lon roared out the demand, standing up so quickly his chair fell backwards.

The tension snapped and anger rushed into the breach.

"If you weren't so sharding obsessed with Thread, this never would have happened!" R'gul shouted back. "You've cracked your shell, F'lon, and this is the result!"

"He changed the maneuver! Larth and Tuenth never should have been flying so close!" F'lon yelled.

"Don't you cast blame on me! It should have been Simanith who died!" S'lel roared back.

With a wordless cry of rage and despair, F'lon swung a blow over the table at S'lel. It never landed. R'gul shoved the table over against F'lon and he staggered back, but when he regained his footing, his knife was in his hand.

R'gul and S'lel pulled their knives too; ignoring C'latan's protest.

"Drop your knives!" C'gan bellowed. He was only a blue rider, but he'd been weyrlingmaster for so long that most of them had trained under him. Belt knives and daggers skittered along the tables and dropped to the floor and the fight swirled widely enough to draw them all in.

As the Weyr's leadership blew apart in a brawl, several brown, green and blue riders shoved the other tables back, pushing junior riders and weyrlings back towards the women and children, forming a protective line. Children began to wail, girls hustling them away deeper into the living quarters. Someone was clutching F'lar's arm so tightly it began to tingle when the blood flow stopped, and he turned to see F'nor.

"They'll pile on him," F'nor said in a hoarse whisper.

It was true. With C'latan staying at the fringes of the fight, F'lon was alone in the melee.

The bodies were too thick, the light from the fire and glows too uneven, for F'lar and his brother to see what was happening, but within a few minute, they heard a terrible ear-shattering note from a dragon, its tone of shocked rage slowing the fight as all the dragonriders responded to a dragon's distress. They heard the wind of a hasty launch, and then all the dragons in the Weyr gave voice to the eerie, hair-raising, barely audible, high keening note that signified the passing of one of their kind.

 _Mnementh! Who was it?_ F'lar cried out in the privacy of his mind.

 _Simanith_. Mnementh's mind-tone was ragged.

But Simanith wouldn't go _between_ without his rider unless . . . F'lon was dead.

For a second, F'lar felt like his mind had gone _between_ as well, but then consciousness returned. Consumed with rage, F'lar forced his way past the green dragonrider who tried to block his way and snatched up a discarded knife. "I'll kill you! You killed him and I'll kill you!" he screamed at R'gul.

R'gul made no move to defend himself, an expression of shock and regret making his strong features haggard. It was V'sen who grabbed F'lar around the waist and C'latan who seized his arm, pressing tendon to bone so painfully that F'lar involuntarily opened his fingers and dropped the knife.

"There will be no more deaths in the Weyr," C'latan said. "Think, F'lar! It has to end!"

"No one intended," R'gul began, and then trailed off.

"You killed him!" F'lar shouted again, straining against the men holding him back.

"I wasn't anywhere near him when he fell," R'gul said.

"Nor was I," S'lel said.

"Nor I."

All the riders in the fight denied being anywhere near F'lon when he took his fatal fall. A few of them moved his body back out from under the table and straightened it, bringing the head back to its proper position.

"Don't you touch him! Get away from him! Murderers!" F'lar was still convulsing with shock and rage.

Mnementh put his head right into the Lower Caverns and bellowed, sending all the young weyr folk into screams as the panicked dragon tried to force his way in. Mnementh's claws scrabbled at the entrance, showering rock and dirt over the floor as he fought for entry.

"Control your dragon!" C'latan shouted at F'lar.

"He killed F'lon!" F'lar shouted back, still trying to break away from V'sen and C'latan and launch himself at R'gul.

Mnementh bellowed again, and the boulders mortared into the entryway crashed to the stone floor under his mighty claws.

"Control your dragon or you're no dragonrider!" Full palm, C'latan slapped F'lar across the face.

F'lar touched Mnementh's mind, then twisted his body and kicked out with both feet, catching V'sen in the chest. With a gasp and stagger, the bronze rider let go and F'lar went running and scrambling over furniture and rocks to reach Mnementh. He threw himself onto Mnementh's neck, not bothering with the riding straps. Mnementh took a step backward and launched himself upward. He was barely a dragonlength above the ground when he went _between_ , where the cold froze the sweat on F'lar's body and the tears on his face.

~###~

Mnementh took them to Whiterock Waterfall. F'lar sat on a rock at the top of the waterfall, watching the water pour over the edge to be pounded into foam on the rocks at the base. Mnementh's muzzle rested on the rock, where F'lar could keep a hand on the soft hide and feel Mnementh's breath against his leg.

F'lar barely registered the arrival of another dragon until he heard Mnementh.

 _Canth comes_. _F'nor asked where you were._

F'nor didn't say anything. He sat down on the rock next to him. His shoulder pressed into F'lar's as both of F'lon's sons sat and watched the waterfall pour off the edge.

F'nor started to shake, and F'lar broke his reverie enough to realize F'nor was sobbing soundlessly and without tears, more a convulsion of shock than ordinary grief. F'lar didn't know what to do, so he didn't do anything, but as he turned back to the waterfall, he realized that he had more memories of F'lon than F'nor did. F'nor would never fly in F'lon's Wing, which was surely what their sire intended. His bewildered mind eventually settled on the conclusion that F'nor might envy all the time and memories he had with their sire. F'lar looked at his brother, and then put a hand on his bony shoulder. F'nor was already tall and broad-shouldered, but at sixteen, he was still skinny.

An immense brown claw looped F'nor and plucked him off the rock. An instant later, F'lar was lifted in Mnementh's foreclaws.

 _You sit too close to the edge. Canth worries,_ Mnementh explained.

Both striplings were deposited together onto a bare spot of ground carpeted with last fall's dead leaves, then the dragons stretched out to encircle them. Mnementh's muzzle had been tinged with the gray of dragon grief since Larth died, but now it seemed his entire hide was dull with gray. Canth crooned with concern and nudged F'nor, knocking him into the dirt.

"Leave off, Canth," F'nor said, shoving ineffectually at Canth's thick neck.

Canth put out a foreclaw and gathered F'nor in as delicately as he could. Safe in the dragon's embrace, F'nor started to cry real sobs.

F'lar fell against Mnementh, and accepted the clutching embrace, but he held himself strong and still against the dragon's side. He couldn't cry; he couldn't let himself go like that. There was too much to be done, and with F'lon gone, he was the only one left to do it all.

~###~

F'lar and F'nor came back to the Weyr at full dark. Canth glided down to the weyrling barracks and Mnementh backwinged to land on the ledge to their weyr. F'lar's fingers were clumsy as he worked the riding straps off, and then he stood there for a few minutes before deciding he didn't want to leave Mnementh. He went to his weyr, then returned, dragging the bed furs down the short corridor between his sleeping quarters and the hollow of solid rock near the entrance where Mnementh rested. Mnementh's head came around to watch F'lar, and he put out a foreleg and gathered F'lar in again, studying him with an iridiscent eye, whirling orange with distress.

 _I will miss F'lon and Simanith too_.

"There are few who will," F'lar said bitterly. R'gul may not have intentionally caused F'lon's death, but there were many among the bronze riders who would not regret F'lon's absence.

Mnementh wrapped his other foreleg around F'lar as well, nearly crushing him in a draconic embrace.

"Leave off squashing me, Mnementh. I'm not going anywhere," F'lar said, pushing back at his dragon and feeling the first hint that his devastation might someday ease.

Mnementh loosened his grasp and let F'lar spread out the bed fur.

A gust of wind blew into the weyr as another dragon scrabbled for a hold on the rocky ledge, paused a few seconds, and then launched himself away again.

 _Jizith_ , Mnementh identified him.

F'lar was wondering why his blue wingmate would visit his weyr this night of all nights when Tirina walked into the glowlit cavern.

"I asked V'van to bring me," she said.

"Tirina, I just can't tonight."

"You deadglow – this isn't about sex. I didn't think you should be alone tonight, and neither did Manora." Tirina planted a kiss on his forehead, gave Mnementh an absent pat, then walked down the corridor to the sleeping chamber and returned dragging the mattress bag of rushes from F'lar's bed. "Mnementh, is it all right if I sleep here?" Tirina dropped the bag of rushes next to Mnementh's side, and Mnementh rumbled approval.

"I brought fellis if you want some," Tirina said, spreading out another bed fur.

"No."

"Then lie awake all night if that makes you feel better. I'll be right here, F'lar. I'm sorry for your loss; I'll grieve F'lon too, though not as much as you. I know you have Mnementh, but there are a few humans who are fond of you as well, even though you make that so difficult at times," Tirina went on, words divided between scolding him and consoling him.

F'lar settled into Mnementh's foreleg, listening to Tirina say whatever popped into her head, with Mnementh occasionally adding a silent reply. Her voice was pleasant, even though he stopped paying attention to what she was saying. He would never be alone as long as he had Mnementh, but he was thinking it was a comfort to know that there were a few humans whom he could turn to as well. He had Tirina, F'nor, and even Manora, after a fashion. He hoped none of them were alone tonight either. F'nor would be in the weyrling barracks with Canth and a crowd of dragons and weyrlings.

"Tirina?" he interrupted. "Is Manora alone tonight?"

"No. She and Willa are sitting vigil with F'lon's body."

"It's good she's not alone tonight. And F'nor won't be either."

"And neither are you."

"It's good that you came, Tirina. I couldn't have asked, but it's good you came."

"You're welcome, F'lar."

F'lar nodded into the darkness and huddled closer to Mnementh. Through the soft hide, he could feel the slow, steady rhythm of the dragon's heart, accompanied by the even breaths. Tirina stirred briefly, and then her breathing evened out too, though F'lar doubted she'd fallen asleep so quickly.

 _It's good not to be alone_ , F'lar said to Mnementh in the privacy of his mind. _No one who loves F'lon is alone tonight._

Mnementh opened the outer lid on one gleaming eye.

 _Jora_.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

F'lon was buried in the mountaintop cemetery the Weyr used for those who didn't disappear _between_. Memorial services were not common among dragonriders, and the combination of guilt and anger in the Weyr eliminated many who might have attended under better conditions. F'lar came, as did F'nor, Manora and Tirina. Most of F'lon's Wing was there, with the notable exception of H'pan. C'gan sang the elegy, his voice quavering with grief.

At the end of the song, C'gan unpinned the bronze dragon rank marker from the cloth shroud that enveloped F'lon's body. As Weyr Harper, C'gan would keep it until Nemorth's next mating flight determined the identity of the next Weyrleader. Weyrmen lowered his body into the shallow rock-lined burial hollow. F'lar turned away before he had to watch them placing the stones for the cairn around him.

He brushed past F'nor and Manora, though both tried to talk to him. He didn't want to talk. The first wave of grief was giving way to anger that F'lon would be forgotten and dismissed.

"They all should have come," F'lar said to Tirina as Mnementh flew them home. "The entire Weyr should have come to honor their Weyrleader."

Tirina nodded.

"Every rider in the Weyr should have been there," F'lar insisted.

"I know, F'lar."

"Not even Jora came. How could she miss her weyrmate's memorial?"

"I don't know." Tirina used her free hand to rub his neck, trying to calm him down. "I'm free the rest of the day."

"I'm not really in the mood, Tirina," F'lar said, more acerbically than he'd intended. It would feel like a betrayal of F'lon to find comfort in Tirina's embrace and forget him, even for an afternoon.

Tirina stopped rubbing his neck. When Mnementh landed, she dismounted, thanked the dragon, and walked off without saying anything further to F'lar.

He scowled and raked back the forelock that had fallen into his eyes. He didn't want her company, but he also didn't want to be alone. He didn't want to talk to anyone, but at the same time, he was bursting with anger and resentment that had no outlet. He settled for silently wandering around the Lower Caverns in between spells of lying against Mnementh on the Bowl floor.

His hatred of R'gul was growing like a Thread that had burrowed into his heart. He'd not only killed F'lon, he'd isolated and defeated him before he died. F'lar knew he would never forgive R'gul for humiliating his sire. He sat next to Mnementh and pounded on the sand, furious that a good man like F'lon had been undone by a cowardly schemer like R'gul.

In a trice, his anger flailed around and drew in a new target – Jora. She should have come to the memorial. Before that, she should have come out of her weyr and been a leader with F'lon. R'gul would never have been able to isolate F'lon from a true weyrmate. Jora had betrayed F'lon by her whining self-pity and withdrawal. It seemed to F'lar that refusing to be loyal to someone who needed your loyalty was just as much of a betrayal as a more overt betrayal, such as S'lel had committed. None of them had supported F'lon. None were loyal to him. F'lon had only his son, and that wasn't enough. All those senior riders and leaders had betrayed him and killed him, and now they would forget him.

F'lar hadn't been able to save his father, but he could keep them from forgetting him. He would avenge F'lon's death, and everyone in the Weyr would regret what they'd done by the time F'lar was through with them.

F'lar ran fingers through his uncombed hair and brushed the sand off his tunic and trousers. Full of his anger, F'lar strode towards Jora's weyr, ready to do battle. Jora's weyr was up a short flight of stairs, past the Council Room. There were dragonriders in the Council Room, talking over the map of Pern that was carved with holes for pegs to mark the sweep riding assignments.

F'lar passed the Council Room, reached the door curtain to Jora's weyr, and called out "Weyrwoman, permission to enter."

It wasn't until the voices quieted that he realized he'd interrupted a conversation.

Then Jora said, "Come."

F'lar brushed aside the curtain. R'gul and S'lel were in Jora's weyr. Jora was seated on the room's small couch, close enough to R'gul that their legs touched. S'lel sat on a stool close to her other side. The weyr was still cluttered and odorous. R'gul kept his expression blank. He'd avoided F'lar since the brawl. S'lel stared at the floor and refused to acknowledge F'lar's presence at all. Jora gave him a cool and distant look, challenging him to speak.

Suddenly F'lar's anger flew perilously close to tears, and he felt even younger than he was. These people who betrayed F'lon wouldn't hesitate to betray him too, and he was more alone than F'lon had been. He felt as F'lon must have felt right before he swung at S'lel that fatal night – the aching futility of wishing there was someone who would do the right thing just because it was the right thing.

"I . . . I came to offer my condolences on F'lon's death, Weyrwoman."

"Thank you, bronze rider," Jora answered.

F'lar wondered if she'd forgotten his name. He gave a short bow, his half-formed intentions to do battle gone. "Beg pardon for the interruption." He left, heart pounding to have found Jora talking to R'gul and S'lel. Jora had already passively betrayed F'lon before he died – no reason not to do it overtly now. She'd never loved him; she'd only wanted to possess him.

Voices drew his attention and F'lar stepped into the Council Room. V'sen had taken out a couple of the pegs, and he and several brown riders were discussing the map. Those assignments never changed, and they were all scheduled to start riding again this next sevenday, when the time set aside for the Games ended.

"Are the sweep assignments being changed?" F'lar asked.

"We're consolidating some patrols, F'lar," V'sen explained. "There's no need to fly quite so many patrols."

"May I ask on whose authority you're making the changes?" F'lar asked, keeping his voice neutral.

"Jora's authority," V'sen said.

Jora had no opinions on sweep riding.

"Patrol assignments are under the authority of the Weyrleader, and since we've been riding the same schedules for Turns now, perhaps the assignments should be maintained until a new Weyrleader is chosen," F'lar said. He knew exactly what they were doing, and he wasn't going to let them pretend they didn't know it.

"R'gul made the suggestions," B'refli said. He was the brown rider in S'lel's Wing. "He's likely to be the next Weyrleader, and he discussed the patrol changes with all the Wingleaders and Wingseconds before bringing the matter to Jora."

There was a line of them now, all at least fifteen Turns older than he was, with hard looks and unapologetic stances. Far from pretending to sneak these changes in, they were going to take over the Weyr before any official leadership changes took place. All of them were betraying F'lon's memory and his past leadership.

"R'gul isn't Weyrleader yet," F'lar said, his voice still steady.

"The Weyr can't remain leaderless for more than a Turn until Nemorth rises to mate again," V'sen pointed out. "We hope Nemorth will rise sooner, in response to the Weyr's need, but we have to take steps in the interim."

And now F'lar didn't trust his voice to stay steady anymore. He'd wanted to do battle, but if his sire had lost to these people, how could he possibly win? He nodded curtly at them and walked out. By the time he got to the Bowl floor, he was cursing under his breath, pounding a fist into his hand. He was on his way back to the lake to find Mnementh when F'nor intercepted him.

"You've heard what they're doing, haven't you?" F'nor said. He grabbed F'lar by the upper arm and hauled him towards the weyrling barracks.

"You already knew?" F'lar demanded.

F'nor shrugged. "People talk. Weyrlings listen. Word gets around."

He pulled F'lar into the wide open entry to the weyrling barracks and then through the smaller opening to the dormitory where all the weyrlings were gathered.

"It wasn't fair what they did to F'lon," T'sum declared without preamble.

That was the first time F'lar had heard someone say that outside of his own thoughts.

"Look, F'lar, everyone knows you agree with F'lon about Thread, and I've got my own opinions about Thread. But what I can tell you is that I don't respect what those other senior riders did to F'lon," L'rad said.

"Not that anyone cares what opinion a blue rider holds about Weyr leadership, but I'm of the same mind as L'rad," T'gor said.

S'ril, who rode a green dragon, gave T'gor a fist pump. "We green riders don't count for much either as far as leadership goes, but what R'gul did to F'lon that night – it was like he was trying to push F'lon over the edge. I don't want him for Weyrleader. Not that I matter, but I still don't want someone like that for Weyrleader. F'lon might have had a few cracked ideas, but he wasn't like R'gul."

It was one thing to have private opinions contrary to Weyr leadership; it was another thing entirely to state them openly in a meeting with other dragonriders. F'lar stiffened, then dismissed them all as weyrlings and decided they could say anything they wanted. He wasn't going to speak up to defend R'gul.

"You know why I wish I could believe all that stuff about Thread?" T'sum asked. "I'll tell you. It sounds better than R'gul's ideas that dragons aren't needed anymore and we should just fade out and go invisible so we don't bother the Holders. I'm about halfway willing to believe Thread is coming back, just so I can ride a fighting dragon someday."

L'rad gave T'sum a friendly shove.

"I believe it. All that stuff about Thread, I believe it," F'nor declared. "There have been long Intervals before. I asked C'gan."

"I don't think Thread is coming back," K'net said, "and it doesn't matter what I think about Thread anyway. But the way S'lel turned on F'lon after F'lon tried to help him made me sick."

"And we're all just a bunch of weyrlings, so who cares what we think anyway?" T'gor asked with a lopsided smile. "I mean, some of you," and he pointed at the bronze and brown riders, "will be in leadership someday, or you will if you don't turn out to be wherries, but I plan to ride my blue Relth and gripe about whatever strikes my fancy. K'net, I promise to complain about you someday if you happen to make Wingleader."

"Shut it, T'gor," S'ril said pleasantly. "We're having a weyrling council about the coup we're planning, so don't depress everyone by telling the truth about how useless we all are."

And that uselessness was the only reason this gathering didn't count as mutiny. F'lar sighed and wondered how to get out of here.

"Tell him, F'nor," L'rad said.

"Me?! It was your idea," F'nor protested.

"Man up, F'nor. He's your brother, so get used to stuff like this. No one else wants to talk to him," T'sum said.

F'lar got up to leave.

"We think Mnementh should fly Nemorth. That way you'll be Weyrleader," F'nor blurted out.

F'lar would have laughed at how ridiculous that notion was, but he was still too depressed to find anything humorous. "I'm nineteen, F'nor. Sure, I'm older and smarter and better than you, but I'm still just nineteen."

"Fortunately, I'm much more handsome than you are, so you can think you're smarter as a consolation prize. And it doesn't matter if you're nineteen. If Mnementh flies Nemorth, you're Weyrleader," F'nor said.

"And R'gul will have to swallow it," L'rad said.

"And you only have to mate with Jora during the flight," T'gor chimed in.

"She was my father's weyrmate!" F'lar exploded, disgusted at the notion for several reasons.

"Nothing matters during a mating flight," S'ril said.

F'lar shuddered.

"Are you going to heave? Do you want a bucket?" L'rad asked.

F'lar stepped over and hauled L'rad up by the arm. "This is the coup you're planning? You're going to take over the Weyr by asking me to be Weyrleader? I've got a better idea." He dropped L'rad's arm to point at K'net. "Use him instead. Get Piyanth to fly Nemorth. If you think a junior bronze rider can be Weyrleader, then take it one step further and put a weyrling bronze rider in the role. Don't waste my time."

F'lar glared at them all impartially and walked out.

"He took it better than I thought he would," he heard F'nor saying as he left.

F'lar found Mnementh and sprawled over the dragon's back. _Weyrlings are deadglows._

Mnementh shifted his wings to drape a wingtip over F'lar's leg.

 _They want you to try and fly Nemorth so I can be Weyrleader_ , F'lar told him.

 _F'lon wanted you to be Weyrleader. Simanith told me_ , Mnementh replied.

F'lar put his hands over his face and blew out a long breath. _He didn't mean this Turn, Mnementh. He meant Turns and Turns from now, when I'm older._ In his mind, F'lar was seeing that line of senior riders in the Council Room, all united against him.

Dragons didn't have much sense of time, so that silenced Mnementh. The two of them stayed in that silence full of tension for several moments.

"Had time to think it over yet?" F'nor asked, appearing next to the dragon.

"Go away, F'nor."

"Not until you tell me why you don't want to do it. I mean, besides the obvious reason of being weyrmates with Jora."

"Have you even met Jora?" F'lar demanded.

"Um, no. I've seen her sometimes when Nemorth comes out to feed. She doesn't really care to have conversations with weyrlings."

That was the only thing F'lar and Jora had in common. F'lar briefly considered his life if he was weyrmates with Jora, and she forced him to give up Tirina and treated him like she'd treated F'lon that one time he'd witnessed their relationship. Did he want to be Weyrleader badly enough to be completely miserable in every other respect?

"You get that there is more to being the Weyrleader than just a mating flight, right F'nor? You have to work with the senior riders. There has to be mutual respect, and unity towards a common goal," F'lar floundered around, trying to find words for that concept he'd seen right before the fight started. F'lon had already lost the Weyr before he tried to hit S'lel. It wouldn't matter if Mnementh flew Nemorth; F'lar wouldn't be Weyrleader in anything besides name. "R'gul is the leader the Weyr wants."

F'nor was silent for a few moments and F'lar hoped he'd go away. This was a horrible conversation.

"I didn't think you'd betray F'lon like that," F'nor said.

F'lar launched himself off Mnementh and landed on F'nor, knocking him to the sand. He had a fist cocked to slam F'nor in the face when Canth landed right beside them and shoved his muzzle up close to F'lar and growled. Mnementh growled back at him, wings mantling.

F'lar got to his feet, hauling F'nor along with him. "We're not fighting. F'nor, tell your dragon we're not fighting. Mnementh, stand down."

"Is there an issue here?" C'latan asked, accompanied by two brown riders.

"No. Mnementh and I were just leaving," F'lar said while F'nor brushed sand off his tunic and tried to look casual.

He seated himself between Mnementh's neck ridges. The big bronze dragon walked away from the other humans and dragons before launching himself into the air towards their weyr ledge. Mnementh settled himself into the hollow near the entry. F'lar paced the distance from the ledge to his weyr several times.

 _You could fly Nemorth_ , F'lar stated.

 _Yes._

 _Do you want to fly Nemorth?_

Mnementh rumbled that question around for a few minutes. _During a mating flight, one wants to mate._

F'lar had not known dragons were capable of evasiveness.

~###~

Over the next several sevendays, the effects of R'gul's leadership became visible and F'lar's anger at him hardened into hatred. Sweep riders were not sent out as often, and the routes changed to avoid the major Holds and Crafthalls. Without as many patrols, dragonriders were more often spending the day in the Weyr, playing cards in the Lower Caverns or lounging with their dragons. The idleness started to eat into morale. Drills were left entirely up to wingleaders, and so drills and practices became inconsistent between the wings. R'gul officially prohibited use of firestone in flight drills while the senior riders evaluated safety precautions. The dragons were willing to play-act a time or two, flying a flaming pass and opening empty jaws, but within a sevenday even that stopped.

C'latan was left as default wingleader of F'lon's wing. He'd been wingleader before age caused his semi-retirement, and no one was in a hurry to appoint a replacement for F'lon. Of the available bronze wingseconds, D'nol had the most seniority. F'lar didn't know how he would tolerate flying under D'nol's leadership, and was grateful for every sevenday that passed with C'latan still in charge.

During an off-time in their wing's schedule, F'lar watched the weyrlings drilling their flight patterns under C'gan's leadership and acidly commented to Mnementh that with the current state of the Weyr, the weyrlings would soon be the best flyers. Part of him was viciously glad that R'gul's leadership was showing so badly so quickly, and part of him was desperate to try and do something to stop the Weyr's downward slide.

The extra free time left F'lar at loose ends, with nothing to do even though there were a thousand things that should have been done. He spent part of it reading Records, but that was not as absorbing as it used to be, now that he couldn't discuss what he was reading with F'lon. He tried talking to Tirina, but she was bored by the Records and didn't bother to conceal it. And he'd been avoiding F'nor and the weyrlings since that ridiculous conversation about him being the next Weyrleader.

Except the idea didn't seem so ridiculous anymore. If he was Weyrleader, he could vindicate F'lon and put R'gul back where he belonged, which was nowhere near a role in leadership. The Weyr continued to decay as R'gul's leadership established itself on the philosophy of uselessness. Disagreements turned violent more often; grudges were declared and held; factions sprang up, with green riders feuding with blue riders, who would unite against brown or bronze riders and then return to the original dispute.

When the tithing train from Lemos brought in newly woven cloth, the disputes about who would get a new tunic and who had to continue wearing cast-offs from the stores cavern reached ludicrous levels. Tirina kept him updated on who was demanding what, and the arguments that erupted when R'gul decided the bronze and brown riders would get first crack at new cloth, with the blue and green riders taking what was left. The women, men and children in the Lower Caverns were sullen at being ignored. According to Tirina, even Manora was irritated with R'gul for not granting them new cloth to replace children's clothing that was so worn that the patches had patches.

F'lar, who might normally have stayed out a dispute on such a trivial topic, jumped right in because it was a chance to undermine R'gul.

"Why are you arguing against being one of the first to get a new tunic?" Tirina demanded.

"Because it was R'gul's idea! He may be choosing my flight assignments right now, but he doesn't get to choose what I wear!" F'lar yelled.

"Fine, don't wear it." Tirina picked up the new tunic she'd sewn for him and turned to leave.

F'lar snatched it out of her hand. "I'm not going to wear it, but I still need it."

"That makes so much sense I won't even ask what you're talking about!"

"Good."

Tirina flounced away, with F'lar idly appreciating the extra swing in her step as she left. Tirina's skirts were swishy in all the right ways.

The next day, F'lar approached V'van while he was watching his blue Jizith bathe in the lake after feeding. The hot summer sun was high in the sky, and most of the dragonriders were still lounging around the Weyr, looking for ways to keep busy.

"Is his wing joint giving him any trouble?" F'lar asked.

"Oh, that was nothing. He just wrenched it slightly in the updraft. I rubbed numbweed into it that night and he was fine in the morning. We can fly just fine," V'van hurried to assure him.

F'lar nodded. He already knew that. "I hear the blue and green riders are charred that there might not be enough new cloth to go around."

"Oh, that," V'van said, scraping the ground with his toe. "It isn't something I'm too worried about. H'pan is. I mean, H'pan usually gets upset about something. Not that he's the only one. I mean, it's not often the Weyr gets new cloth. I guess I don't mind."

"I think the cloth should have been allocated by lots. It would have been the only fair way to handle it," F'lar said.

"Yeah, that would have been a great idea, F'lar. That would have been fair. No one could have said the blue riders were getting shorted again if we'd done it like that. That's a good idea, F'lar. Don't you wish some of us younger riders got a say in things? You've got good ideas, F'lar, and you're not all that bad. I don't listen to what H'pan says about you," V'van rambled on.

F'lar handed V'van the tunic to cut his words short. "Not all of us bronze riders agree with R'gul. I want you to have this."

"Shards, F'lar! I can't take that! Someone will ask where I got it! The blue riders aren't getting new tunics. I mean, C'gan will get one, but more because he's the harper and weyrlingmaster than because of his dragon, but the rest of us aren't getting them, especially not ones with less than ten Turns seniority, and I wouldn't be able to explain it," V'van said.

"Just tell them the truth. Tell them that not all the bronze riders agree with how the blue riders get treated," F'lar said, wanting to end the conversation.

"Shells, but won't that char H'pan! He's always going on about how you're all cut from the same cloth and we can't trust any of you. The bronze riders take what they want and it's short commons for the rest of us. I wish you could be Weyrleader, F'lar, you wouldn't treat us blue riders like that. Did you hear what the weyrlings were saying? I mean, I only talked to T'gor, and it was when he was asking me about a rock that wedged into Relth's hind claw, but he knows I'm wingmates with you, because everyone knows that, and he was saying that only the older riders like R'gul. And that made me think that he's right. It's not really bronze and brown riders against blue and green riders. It's more the older riders against us younger riders, don't you think, F'lar? But when I said that to H'pan, he told me I was wrong, but that's only because he doesn't like you, F'lar, and that really isn't your fault at all. I mean, no one else in the whole Weyr except H'pan was thinking you'd Impress a blue dragon, but ever since H'pan Impressed a green dragon he's been all sure and certain you'd get a blue and he wouldn't listen to the rest of us that there was no way someone like you would Impress a blue dragon, but it sure cracked him hard when you didn't and he's kind of resented you ever since and that's not your fault at all because Mnementh chose you. You know it's the dragon that gets to choose the rider and not the other way around, I mean, everyone knows that, and, oh, do you have to go?"

There was never any pressing business in the Weyr anymore, but F'lar mumbled something and got away from V'van. Now he knew why H'pan didn't like him and he rather wished he could go back to ignorance. He would have preferred to find out he'd done something offensive.

F'lar took to dropping by the weyrling barracks in the empty afternoons, mostly on the excuse of talking to F'nor. He surprised himself by discovering he didn't mind F'nor's company. Away from the other weyrlings, F'nor talked sense. One afternoon, he took F'nor to the Records Room and showed him the Records from the last Pass that he was reading.

F'nor wrinkled his nose and held the decaying pages carefully in his fingers, turning them delicately. He glanced down the writings, but didn't take the time to decipher them. "So if I say something, do you promise not to try to knock my teeth out again?"

"What?"

"About you being Weyrleader."

F'lar drummed his fingers on the stone table. "R'gul's going to ruin the Weyr."

F'nor relaxed. "Agreed."

"And since everyone already thinks I'm arrogant, why not try for the top spot?" F'lar said rhetorically.

"Exactly! We talked about what you said – about putting K'net up for Weyrleader, but that's exactly the problem he has. He isn't arrogant enough to pull it off, and you are," F'nor said frankly. "K'net would probably apologize if Piyanth flew Nemorth, You'd just say 'of course Mnementh is the best in the Weyr' and everyone would have to roll their eyes and say 'F'lar is like that' and then you'd say 'I'm the best in the Weyr too' and by then about half of us would agree with you just to get rid of R'gul and that would be that!"

"Only half of you, huh?" F'lar asked drily, thinking that his recent efforts to talk to people turned up a lot of unpleasant comments.

F'nor shrugged. "You can't have everything."

F'lar brushed the forelock of hair out of his eyes and leaned his chin on his hand.

"Do you hate him?" F'nor asked diffidently, fingering the uneven edges of the page and trying to give off a casual air.

F'lar kept very still. His hatred of R'gul was private. The intensity of it frightened him – it was like Thread trying to eat him from the inside out. Every time he thought of it, the hatred grew larger, consuming him the way he'd read that Thread destroyed crops and trees and living things. F'lon had been a good man, and the injustice of what R'gul had done to him in turning the Weyr against him after Larth's death and then killing him kept F'lar awake at nights, staring at the ceiling and replaying the moments of the brawl in his head. An ordinary fall wouldn't have caused a broken neck. F'lon had been shoved violently, his hands restrained so he couldn't catch himself. Deliberate action had killed F'lon, and R'gul carried the blame for it even if F'lar couldn't prove that R'gul was the one who had shoved him. In a way, he treasured the privacy of his hatred. It was a connection to his father – a promise to avenge him. But then again, if there was anyone else in the Weyr who had a right to share in his hatred, it was F'nor.

"I hate him," F'lar said at last, quietly.

"So do I," F'nor said, just as quietly.

F'lar met his eyes, and saw depths in them that betrayed the fact that F'nor was being eaten from the inside out by that Thread of hatred too. He hadn't thought to have that in common with easygoing, popular F'nor.

"I'll try for Weyrleader," F'lar said.

F'nor gave him a bitter smile. "And then you can assign R'gul to ride Igen sweep patrols for the rest of his life."

"Should we let him live that long?"

"Yes, maybe he could take an accidental fall too."

"That would be justice," F'lar said.

They talked for almost an hour about ways for R'gul to die, each getting more and more violent. The macabre discussion released a tension in F'lar. No one else ever came to the Records Room, and so they didn't bother to keep their voices down.

~###~

F'lar found that he always had seatmates at the dinner table now. The junior riders and weyrlings mixed more often, and there wasn't as much of a division between the junior riders of dragons of different colors as was evident among the senior riders. He couldn't bring himself to look at H'pan, now that he knew the source of H'pan's resentment, but V'van chatted easily with him without expecting much in reply, and B'fol, a green rider, openly thanked F'lar for giving away his tunic. F'lar had meant the gesture as an insult to R'gul more than a way to be fair to green and blue riders, but it had convinced the green and blue riders that a bronze rider took their part.

"If even someone like you can see it's unfair, then others ought to be able to figure it out," D'wer explained to him earnestly.

F'lar searched for a compliment in that remark and then shrugged it off. He was never going to shake his reputation for arrogance.

When the conversations veered into open condemnation of R'gul, F'lar mentally rationalized away the guilt by reminding himself that R'gul wasn't Weyrleader. They weren't rebelling against authority because R'gul didn't have any authority, other than wingleader, and he wasn't their wingleader. Besides, the senior riders ignored the junior riders and weyrlings as much as they ignored the green and blue riders. All of them got used to saying whatever they felt like saying, knowing that no one was listening anyway.

That's why it was such a shock the evening F'lar found out that he was wrong – the senior riders were very concerned about what was going on among the junior riders.

He couldn't find Tirina one evening. Earlier that afternoon she'd said she'd come to his weyr that night. He walked around the Lower Caverns from kitchen hearths to the lounging area in front of the fireplaces twice without seeing her. At last, one of the little girls paused the story she was playing with her doll and piped up, "she went there," and pointed towards the corridor that led to the sleeping rooms and children's areas, deeper into the caverns.

"D'nol went with her," another girl announced.

That slowed him down and he approached silently enough to overhear them instead of interrupting.

"He hasn't said anything like that," Tirina was protesting, her voice shrill.

"Then you're the only one in the Weyr who hasn't heard him. I want to know what he's planning," D'nol insisted.

"Let go!"

"I just want to know where your loyalty lies, Tirina. There's been enough death in the Weyr."

"I'm not the one with blood on my hands," F'lar said, striding into the light of the glowbasket and knocking D'nol's hand away from Tirina's arm. She ducked behind him.

"We've heard what you're saying," D'nol said. "You and the others."

"Then you talk to me about it. Don't go threatening a woman," F'lar said. Fists clenched, he hoped D'nol would throw the first punch so F'lar could pound him into insensibility against the stone wall.

"There's to be a Council of Wingleaders about you and this mutiny you're spreading," D'nol said.

"Mutiny? There has to be a leader for there to be mutiny against him, D'nol. The Weyr doesn't have a leader right now, and we all know who's to blame for that. Why don't we have a Council of Wingleaders to try a few people for murder?" F'lar was clenching and unclenching his fists, with that Thread of hatred twisting inside of him and begging to throw the first punch. "Your lot killed the Weyrleader; I'm not the one guilty of mutiny."

D'nol shoved roughly past him, F'lar's blow landing on his shoulder as he retreated. D'nol didn't stop to engage the fight, which infuriated F'lar. He wanted to hurt someone so badly that his body was shaking. He leaned against the stone wall until he calmed down, drawing in long gasps as if not fighting strained him as badly as fighting. Then he took Tirina with him to tell the junior riders and weyrlings what had happened.

"What's a Council of Wingleaders? Who made that up?" F'nor demanded.

"Off with you now, the whole pack of you," C'gan, the weyrlingmaster, ordered them as he approached.

"What? It's not even late," T'sum protested.

C'gan fixed a stern eye on T'sum. "The proper answer, weyrling, is 'yes sir.' Now go."

If it had been one of the wingleaders trying to break up their group that evening, the situation might have ended violently. But this was C'gan, a blue rider, harper and weyrlingmaster. He was the only one in the Weyr with any moral authority left, F'lar reflected as the weyrlings and most of the junior riders followed his orders.

Later that night in his weyr, with Tirina sleeping beside him, F'lar gloated over the evening. The senior riders felt threatened, and they acknowledged him as the one to worry about the most. He felt powerful. It was a good feeling.

~###~

It took only a sevenday after the senior riders inadvertently acknowledged F'lar as the leader of the younger dragonriders for his position to solidify and for the challenge to become overt. Junior riders didn't bother to keep their voices down when they talked about the changes F'lar would make when he was Weyrleader. He couldn't turn around without running into a weyrling who wanted to talk to him, and he made the effort to be polite. Tirina started delivering messages from the women in the Lower Caverns about changes that would improve their lot, and then finally told F'lar to go talk to Manora himself. He did, and was surprised to find that she was seriously considering the situation of the Lower Caverns under his leadership. She had kind words for him about F'lon too, which cemented his loyalty to the new headwoman.

Even one of the senior blue riders stopped to talk to F'lar about how the blue and green riders were treated under the current leadership and to ask what guarantees F'lar would make for more equality. F'lar talked about his idea to allocate the new cloth by lots instead of rank, and listened to the man complain about his dragon having to wait to feed until every bronze and brown dragon had eaten, even if they'd arrived later. He talked that issue over with Mnementh, and was glad he hadn't committed himself to the blue rider. Mnementh did not like the idea of waiting for a blue dragon to eat first.

There was no more talk of a Council of Wingleaders, though F'lar didn't forget the threat. He would have welcomed a chance to openly air his grievances with R'gul, and decided that was the reason they'd dropped the idea. Doing anything in a Council would have required discussion, and there were a few among the senior riders who were too honest to want R'gul as a leader, even if they weren't willing to support someone as young as F'lar.

It would come to an open fight soon, F'lar realized. The tensions were building, and the numbers in the Weyr were almost evenly split between senior riders and junior. F'lar cultivated loyalty wherever he could find it; when the fight broke, he wasn't going to be alone in the brawl.

And then Nemorth pre-empted the entire battle for Weyr leadership by rising to mate late one summer afternoon.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Mnementh took F'lar to the Bowl floor, near Jora's weyr, before launching himself back into the air for the short hop to the feeding grounds on the other side of the lake. Besides R'gul's Hath, Tuenth, Valenth, Moreth and Binth were already sucking the blood from carcasses of herdbeasts. F'lar watched in horrified fascination at the macabre feeding frenzy as Mnementh joined them, then two other bronzes descended, one after the other.

There was an uproar from the queen's weyr, and then Nemorth emerged, her eyes whirling red and orange. Her wings flapped ponderously as she half-ran, half-flew towards the feeding grounds where the bronzes gave way to her, leaving the dead animals where they lay.

"Really?" T'bor whispered hoarsely to him, and F'lar recognized Orth in the ring of bronzes surrounding the feeding ground. F'lar wondered if his expression was so consumed with fear and shock. He'd planned to depose R'gul, not mate with Jora, and yet Mnementh's rising desire was clouding his thoughts.

Nemorth screamed defiance at the bronzes as she landed on her first herdbeast, and the mating scream threw Mnementh fully into the emotional storm of a mating flight, drawing F'lar with him. Dragons lived in the present, rarely considering past and future, and that perspective engulfed F'lar. The reasons and the consequences didn't matter anymore – what mattered was that the Weyr's queen dragon was tearing the entrails of a herdbeast and Mnementh was poised to launch himself in flight.

"Don't let her gorge!" F'lar heard R'gul shouting.

"She's so hungry!" Jora wailed back.

Mnementh was only disgusted that if the queen gorged, the mating flight would be short. He watched as Nemorth devoured a second herdbeast, and then a wherry, the urge to fly and mate winding tighter and tighter in him.

When Nemorth finally sprang upward, Mnementh exploded off the feeding ground after her, but the air was too full of bronze dragons and he was forced to give way to avoid fouling a wingtip. Mnementh avoided the clot of dragons and beat his wings furiously to gain altitude, clearing the Rim. Nemorth flew heavily, her wings flapping and breathing labored. Mnementh broke above the pack, angling towards the queen from above. The other bronzes were gaining on her from behind when Tuenth and Moreth darted up, blocking Mnementh's approach. He roared out a challenge, and the two dragons replied with their own brassy bugles. Moreth edged Mnementh away from the queen, and then Tuenth drove up between them, further separating Mnementh from Nemorth. Below them, Hath darted into the space left when Tuenth and Moreth peeled off from the fair of bronzes and brushed wings with Nemorth.

F'lar's all-consuming contact with Mnementh's mind broke as Mnementh capitulated to his ejection from the mating flight and wheeled off, trumpeting loudly. The entire episode had lasted only a few minutes, but F'lar was gasping and reeling with the excess of emotion and the sudden disappointment at the ending.

And then Tirina was there, an arm around his waist, pulling his arm around her shoulders to lend him support. "Come away, F'lar. Come with me."

He went with her.

~###~

F'lar woke the next morning in an unfamiliar bed, the room lit only by a half-shielded glow. A crushing disappointment hung over him, ponderous and foggy, then memory returned and he remembered the mingled shame and relief that Mnementh had not mated with Nemorth the previous day. He groaned and Tirina touched his face.

"Do you know which bronze caught her?"

"R'gul went with Jora," Tirina said.

"Sure, of course. Mnementh could have flown Nemorth. Shards, a blue dragon with the shakes could fly Nemorth." That was the shameful part of losing. He groaned again, his hands to his face. He'd woken up in a bed with Tirina instead of Jora, and that was the part of losing that caused relief. Perhaps it was his mixed feelings that lost Mnementh the edge he needed for victory. His rider didn't want to be Weyrleader badly enough.

Tirina kept caressing his face, and then she pulled him over to lie against her shoulder. The passion from last night was spent and he didn't even want to accept comfort this morning. The longer he was awake, the more the injustice and despair pressed against him. He hadn't lost in a fair fight to R'gul. Jora and Nemorth had made the decision about their leader, and he couldn't think of anyone less qualified to make decisions for the Weyr.

From outside Tirina's room, he could hear people stirring in the Lower Caverns, children and women passing the door hanging, the lights brightening as the glows in the corridor were unshielded.

"Are you needed?"

He felt her shrug under his cheek. "There's no rush on the morning after a mating flight. You aren't the only bronze rider in the Lower Caverns this morning."

The other losers. He ran through the list of riders whose dragons he'd recognized in the mating flight yesterday. S'lel, V'sen, T'bor, S'lan and D'nol. Idly, he wondered who had taken D'nol if Tirina had taken him. At least he'd won that much. And K'net, the weyrling bronze rider, hadn't been involved. Neither had C'latan's Kogath. It had been S'lel's and D'nol's dragons who had edged Mnementh out of the flight. F'lar reached out with his mind and found Mnementh still sleeping. He didn't disturb him.

F'lar rolled over and sat up. The stone floor of Tirina's sleeping room was cold under his bare feet. His weyr at least had rugs on the floor. He dressed quickly and shoved his feet into his boots while Tirina was still fastening her skirt tapes. He unshielded another glow and looked around her room. The walls were hung with mended hangings, and the worktable was scattered with pieces of cloth to be sewn into tunics. Several stuffed dolls sat in a small stone alcove, wearing elaborate clothes.

F'lar picked up one that was wearing an embroidered tabard. "You sewed this?"

"I give most of them away to the children, but I made that one for myself when I was ten Turns old," Tirina said. "The others are here because Silona and some of the other children wanted their dolls to have a Gather."

F'lar half-smiled at the doll, whose rag hair was braided and fastened with ribbons. Childhood – that innocent state when you trusted the adults around you to do the right thing. It seemed that much of growing up meant losing that trust. F'lar hadn't considered himself a child for Turns and Turns now, but with the final and irrevocable loss of the delusion that right and justice would win out, he realized that he was much more of an adult this morning than he had been yesterday. Adulthood seemed like such a cynical end for childhood. He put the doll back among her Gather friends.

"What?" he asked, catching sight of the expression on Tirina's face.

"Nothing. You just looked a lot like your sire right then." She turned away to find her slippers.

He remembered F'lon looking a thousand Turns old and completely defeated. So this is what it felt like. "I should go."

Tirina squeezed his hand and he left. The breakfast hearth was tended, but there was hardly anyone at the tables and F'lar didn't stop. The sun was well up, the air warm and sweet with late summer. The Weyr was empty – no dragons sunned themselves on the ledges, and hardly anyone was about in the Bowl. He crossed to the weyrling barracks.

L'rad looked up when he came in the wide entrance to the cavern where the dragons had their stone hollows. L'rad paused in polishing the buckles on his riding harness to holler, "F'nor! He's here!"

F'nor came from the direction of the dormitory, followed by several others.

"Hey."

"Yeah."

"So."

F'lar shrugged. "I'm not Weyrleader."

"But next time you could be," F'nor said.

He didn't know if he could try that again. He didn't feel much like talking, and none of the weyrlings had anything to say. They stood there with each other, speaking in half-sentences, the pain and failure too raw to distill into words. When Mnementh landed near the barracks, F'lar seized on the excuse to leave and no one protested.

He draped a limp arm across Mnementh's neck and they walked away.

 _I will be older next time. I will know how to not let them edge me out._

 _You did fine, Mnementh. You did fine._

Despite his own utter dejection, F'lar didn't want Mnementh to feel that he'd failed his rider when he suspected his own mixed feelings had weakened Mnementh. He was so angry and resentful and frustrated with his own youth and uselessness. R'gul was Weyrleader, and they would all forget F'lon. The Weyr would recede further into obscurity. F'lar would be marginalized by the current leadership. Pern would be annihilated by Thread. F'lar followed his string of thoughts as they spiraled further and further into _between._

Mnementh paused at the lake, which was serene on this windless and empty morning. F'lar looked at their reflection in the water, then over to Jora's weyr, shuddered at the possibility of seeing her with R'gul, and turned back to the water. There was an extra reflection now, a bronze dragon on the wing. His despair disappeared, and in its place was an assurance that he would be Weyrleader, accompanied by a sense of time and patience to wait for the next queen. Not with Jora, then. The relief was so palpable that F'lar didn't question the knowledge until he turned upwards to identify the dragon above them and no one was there.

He looked around the Weyr, but there were no dragons out. R'gul was in Jora's weyr; the other bronze riders were still in the Lower Caverns. Yet he'd seen the reflection of a bronze dragon in the lake.

 _Mnementh, who was it?_

 _Who?_

 _The dragon in the reflection!_

 _There is no one else out._

That was true enough, but he was sure he'd seen a rider on a bronze dragon reflected in the lake. The dragon had gone _between_ and taken F'lar's despair with him. The hair on the back of his neck stood up as he realized what must have happened. Simanith and F'lon had returned. No one ever returned from the death of _between_ , but in a situation like this, where Pern's survival hung on the faith and determination of the only bronze rider left alive who would prepare for Thread, someone had. His breath quickening, F'lar vaulted to Mnementh's neck and the dragon launched himself into the air, going _between_ before he cleared the Rim.

The cemetery was empty. F'lar wasn't sure if he'd expected F'lon and Simanith to meet him here, but there was no one here. F'lon's was the newest cairn, the stone still bright and unweathered. The meadow grass waved between the rows of memorials, the light breeze crisp.

"Was it you?" F'lar asked no one. He tried to doubt what had happened, but that vengeful despair that had carved such a deep hole in him was filled and he couldn't find it anymore. In its place was – well, it was nothing so cheerful as hope – it was resolve. Yes, it was resolve, accompanied by the fortitude for active patience and hard work as he waited for his time to become Weyrleader. He swallowed hard and looked around, then up, wondering if F'lon and Simanith would ever come back. "Did you mean it?"

The stone cairn was silent; the morning empty. Time folded for F'lar, erasing the last several sevendays of the bitter feud with R'gul and returning him to the clarity right after F'lon's death, when he'd accepted the task of continuing F'lon's legacy of preparing for Thread. His mistake had been to get tangled up in that Threadlike hatred of R'gul. The desire to be Weyrleader couldn't spring from an attempt to revenge himself on R'gul or to vindicate F'lon. That would trap him in the squabbles engulfing the Weyr. He had to be above it if he was to lead. Thread wouldn't care who was Weyrleader. F'lar pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and untangled the Threads of his hatred of R'gul from his desire to save Pern. To truly lead, he couldn't let vengeance color his actions anymore. When Thread returned, he would need every rider in the Weyr, including R'gul. He had to do the right thing because it was the right thing. He had to be the adult his childhood self wanted to believe in.

"You understand, don't you? It can't be vengeance against R'gul for your sake, but someday he'll know you were right. He'll never admit it, but I'll know he knows. If you ever come back from _between_ again, you'll be proud of me, I swear it on the First Egg. I'll make you proud," F'lar said to F'lon's grave.

The high, cool breeze of a mountain summer blew the fog out of his head and heart and settled his decision.

 _Mnementh? Do you see why we have to do this?_

 _Because of Thread. Not because of your sire or the one who caused his death._

 _Yes._

Mnementh reared up on his hind feet and trumpeted to the sky.

They had Turns to wait, Turns in which he would show the Weyr the difference between a man who believed those old, outdated traditions that they all scorned, and one who dissipated his life in a purposeless present. Not that it would win him any friends; he would have to settle for their respect instead. It had felt good when the others had rallied around him in the fight against R'gul. He would have to give that up, and focus on this lonely fight against Thread, though it would solidify his reputation for arrogance. It was arrogant to think you were right when everyone else thought you were wrong, even he could acknowledge that.

F'lar's ruminations were interrupted by the rush of dragon wings, and then Canth landed, bringing F'nor. F'lar raised a fist in welcome. Perhaps he wouldn't be completely alone.

"You left in a rush," F'nor said hesitantly.

Words tangled up on F'lar's tongue, and he decided not to share what had happened. F'nor came to stand by F'lon's cairn with him.

"I will be Weyrleader someday, F'nor. When the Weyr has a new queen, I'll be Weyrleader," F'lar promised.

"All right then. We can wait."

F'lar put a hand on his brother's shoulder. They stood there for a few minutes together and then turned back to their dragons.

"You'll be a good Weyrleader," F'nor said. "Just like F'lon."

"Not just like F'lon," F'lar corrected him. "I won't drop my knife in a fight."

~###~

F'lar found C'latan in the Council Room, discussing sweep patrol assignments with a few of the other riders who had not been involved in the mating flight. He waited until they caught sight of him and excused themselves, leaving C'latan alone.

"Good morning, sir," F'lar said, brushing the black forelock of hair out of his eyes again.

"Good morning, F'lar. What is it?" C'latan turned from the map of Pern painted on wood that hung on the wall of the Council Room. Pegs in the map board denoted rider patrol assignments. F'lar could see that there were still fewer patrols this sevenday, evidence of R'gul's decision to reduce their visibility and not bother the Holders.

"I would like to put my name forward as wingsecond."

C'latan set down the handful of pegs he'd been holding, the wrinkles around his mouth falling into sadness. "You don't lack for confidence."

"No sir, I don't."

"You're not the most senior rider who could be promoted into the position, F'lar."

"No sir, but I am the best flyer." F'lar kept his answers short, trying not to say so much he aggravated the older man. He knew he was playing on C'latan's sympathy for him after F'lon's death, and hoping to lean on the man's sense of fair play. F'lon's death had been a tragedy, and C'latan would want to make up for it any way he could. R'gul wouldn't, but R'gul would want to avoid contention with F'lon's son and C'latan. He was counting on C'latan's sympathy and R'gul's passivity to get him into a position to take over as wingleader when C'latan retired. By that time it wouldn't matter that he would be the youngest wingleader in the Weyr; they'd all have seen his skill and leadership ability.

"And if I say no?" C'latan pressed.

"In that event, I will know that your decision is based on your knowledge of what is best for the wing, and I will excel as senior bronze rider under the authority of you and the serving wingsecond."

C'latan studied him for several seconds while F'lar looked straight ahead and kept his expression impassive.

"I will consider you for the position along with the other bronze riders eligible for promotion. Dismissed."

"Yes, sir."

F'lar didn't allow himself to smile until he'd left the Council Room. Mnementh met him just outside, nuzzling him so enthusiastically he almost knocked F'lar off his feet. F'lar wrapped an arm around the huge bronze neck and let Mnementh lift him into the air when he raised his head.

 _We will wait_.

~###~

 **Epilogue**

 **Ten Turns later . . .**

F'lar ran lightly down the stairs from the Council Room after the meeting with Weyrleader R'gul and the other wingleaders. He slapped his riding gloves against his thigh to loosen the stiff wherhide and pulled them on. The Bowl floor was covered in dragons – every wing assembled and waiting to leave. His own wing was towards the back, near the lake, reflecting his status as the wingleader most likely to infuriate the current Weyr leadership, though he wasn't the youngest one anymore.

"Well?" F'nor asked.

"We will Search the High Reaches," F'lar told his wingsecond.

"Manora says Jora will not last the week," F'nor said.

F'lar nodded. Nemorth was breathing her last as well. The only good thing that dragon had ever done for Pern was now lying on the hot sands of the Hatching Ground, the golden shell hardening and promising a new start for the Weyr.

"We'll be back before then," F'lar said.

F'nor mounted Canth while F'lar did one last walk past the other riders in his wing, but there was nothing to correct. F'lar flew a tight wing, and the men in it kept up to the mark.

Mnementh offered a foreleg. With the ease of long practice, F'lar pulled himself up and settled between the neck ridges and fastened the riding straps. At his signal, all twelve dragons launched themselves into the air in an explosion of sand and air.

F'lar concentrated on the firepit patterns of the High Reaches, Lord Fax's chief Hold, and had Mnementh relay the coordinates to all the dragons and riders. He dropped his fist, and all twelve dragons went _between_ with him on the Search for the Weyrwoman who would help him save Pern.

THE END

* * *

Author Note: Thanks for reading! I've always wanted to explore that moment in Dragonflight when F'lar goes back ten Turns and sees himself at his lowest point. That ability to lose everything, and still pick up and keep going is the chief characteristic of a true leader. This is F'lar's "coming of age" story, when the course for his life is set, not just by the events that affect him, but by how he chooses to react to them. He's a difficult character to like at first (at least for me - I'd intended to focus more on F'nor and Manora in this story until F'lar rather abruptly decided I should stick to his POV exclusively), but he's got some real depth. I hope you enjoyed the story.


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